Cutting the Cord
by Rosaria Marie
Summary: Tyrion Lannister and Sansa Stark escape from Westeros together in the aftermath of Joffrey's assassination. Struggling to survive as impoverished exiles in a foreign land, will they be able to find healing and redemption, or will they succumb to the traumatic after-effects of their own violent pasts? Needless to say, don't expect the plot to follow that of the books or TV series!
1. Prologue: The Escape

Prologue: The Escape

The night was dark and full of terrors. It had grown darker yet at the Purple Wedding, when Joffrey, the mad boy king, had finally met the end everyone knew he deserved, gulping down wine poisoned by one of his many enemies. But Tyrion Lannister and Sansa Stark had still managed to escape the clutches of those planning their downfall, branding them as the murderers, and seeking gain through their deaths. But Jaime Lannister, driven on by a spark of conscience few knew existed within him, would not have it be so, and arranged for his brother and sister-in-law's escape. Now was their chance to fly by sea, and seize the window of time opened to them.

The black cape that swallowed the sun shielded Tyrion and Sansa as well, and as they waited in a craggy outcropping along the coastline for the craft that had been paid to ferry them away, starless silence reigned between the estranged husband and wife. But it was not an empty silence, for Sansa could sense the movements of Tyrion's mind, just as she saw him turning his dagger over and over again in his hands.

He was plotting something, and when he plotted, he buried himself inside himself. It was that part of him no one had ever been able to reach, much less change, that menacing beast locked in the dungeon of his soul. His sadistic father, hateful sister, and spurned former mistress all had conspired to bring about his death. His cunning made him a threat to their power, and the money of family weighed more to most than his head. But now…now was the day of reckoning.

"I'm going back." Tyrion broke the silence with a razor sharp tone.

Sansa knew what he meant instantly. "Going back…to kill?"

He snapped his eyes on her like a small angry dog. "Going back," he growled.

He had never acted this way around her before. He had raised his voice when drunk, but she had always known it was the alcohol talking more than the man…and, aside from the debacle that was their unconsummated wedding night, he had rarely allowed himself to be seen completely drunk by her. He preferred to only approach her when he could be sure of being the courteous gentleman, of being soft-spoken and understanding and gentle towards her.

But this was different. All the hate that had gnawed away at his heart for year after year was rising to the surface like a sea serpent, and soon it would overflow like lava, scalding anyone in its path. These were the warning signs of the coming eruption. He was turning dangerous now, like a wounded animal on the run. He was loose, and he was lethal. For the first time since their marriage, Sansa felt truly afraid of him. His face was ugly as a demon, and his tone was ugly, and his thirst for blood was uglier yet…

 _But he had been kind to her._ Her heart felt a strange pin-prick of sorrow for what was about to be lost. Some goodness in him had been kind to her when she needed it most. Some goodness in him still lingered, but it was about to die at his own hands. He was going back to slay it. She seemed to see what would be as clearly as if it had already happened, and her stomach twisted in a knot. And suddenly…she knew. _She had to try_.

"If you let them draw you back into their game, you lose, my lord," she stated steadily. "You lose _everything_."

"You know nothing of such things," he snapped.

"I know you will either kill or be killed, or both," she stated. "Is it really worth it? Are _they_ worth it?"

"On the scales of justice, yes, it is," he affirmed.

"You are using the scales of vengeance," she countered. "You know you are."

He stifled an ironic chuckle. "And if I am?"

"Such a scale has a mind of its own," she whispered. "It never forgives, not even the one using it."

"I do not wish for forgiveness," he retorted. "After these deeds are done I shall be past the point of such things."

"Then you will have gone past the point of the man I was beginning to trust."

He felt her words now; she knew he did. But he forced himself to play the cynic. "A Stark trusting a Lannister?" he scoffed. "Really…you…you knew better all along, m'lady."

"Yes, perhaps I should have," she admitted sadly. "But then…I am not really a part of you, not like the ones you are going back to kill. Your father and sister are of the same blood as you, and Shae…"

"Do not speak of her," he ordered.

She exhaled. "Then you did love her, didn't you?"

"I…do not _love_ ," he claimed through gritted teeth. "It was a business transaction, pure and simple. We both had our own uses for each other. And I…always knew what she was, anyway. She would do anything for coinage. She couldn't hurt me if she tried."

Sansa sensed something new in his voice. A struggle, at least, with the pain punching against his ribs, a struggle that was revealing cracks in his armor. She had to keep trying…keep trying to crack him all the way.

"But Shae is part of you still," she declared. "You lay with her many nights. You cannot blot that out, nor the harm you will do to yourself if you harm her or those who share your blood…"

"The shedding of their blood will only strengthen me."

She shuddered. "If you want that kind of strength, you are on your way to becoming a true-born Lannister," she predicted grimly, allowing her contempt for the family that had caused her own so much pain to sing through her voice. "Perhaps that is what you want, after all."

"I have always been more a Lannister than they ever were," he hissed. "That is why they could not suffer me to live."

"They could not suffer you to live because they care naught for any life if it comes between them and their precious power," she countered. "And you…you are not one with them, not all the way…and that is a blessing you do not seem to realize."

"Such blessings are easily bartered."

"Then you have sold yourself cheap," she spat, standing tall against the other side of the rock face, "and whatever worth I thought I saw in you was naught but weakness."

"Enough, M'lady…"

"You are weak, Tyrion Lannister, weak in body and in soul," she continued, her voice building like the roar of a lioness. "That is why they hated you, because you are not fully a part of them, and yet you went along with them like a leaf in the current of a river. You would live for nothing and die for nothing except to prove your own cunning to make up your lack of manhood…"

"Stop…"

"You are dwarfed not only in your form, but in your heart…"

"Damn you, stop it, bitch!" he bellowed in a fury, instinctively throwing the object in his hand in her direction. It was hatred he was flinging, pure unadulterated hatred for the whole ugly world. It was…his dagger.

Tyrion heard her yelp, and saw her arm pinned back against the rock face. He felt the anger drain out him, replaced by sheer horror. He had not even realized what he was doing when the blade glinting in the first light of morning; he had just wanted to silence her words, her harsh words of truth that bore into him like a drill. He had wanted to kill those words. But now…but now…

"Sansa…" Her name fell out of his mouth, and he stumbled towards her, his heart lodging itself in his throat. Their eyes met, and he felt as if the dagger had been thrown at him instead.

Her gaze was a cross between fear and pain, steeled by some emotion harder to identify. She was trembling all over. Still, with admirable presence of mind, she managed to pull the dagger free with her other hand, and then extended it to him, hilt-first, with the tip pointed towards her breast.

He saw the blade had her blood on it. It froze him to the heart, and his eyes grew hot at the sight. _He had hurt her._

"If you wish for vengeance so dearly," she rasped, "take it now…with this. My blood will do just as well." Her breast was heaving with intensity. "Remember, I rejected you. I can stand in the stead of all those who rejected you…so stab hard, Tyrion, until enough blood runs to quench your thirst for it."

He was stunned and struck dumb as if he had just been beat about the head. He understood now what she had been doing, why she had been pressing him to the brink of insanity. Her words, cutting as they were, were meant for his own good. She was trying to save him…risking herself to try and save him from himself. She was putting herself at his mercy, or at the mercy of his own humanity which was forfeit if he returned. _Was she such a fool?_

With a blank expression, he slowly took the dagger from her. She closed her eyes tight, and turned her face towards the wall. No, it was no ruse then; she really thought he might do it. She was willing to let him do it. Her whole frame was tight, awaiting the bite of steel through her flesh, but making no move to run or defend herself. He felt…sick…sick unto vomiting, sick unto death…

He took several steps backward, almost drunken seeming in their unevenness. Then with a cry of frustration and anguish unleashed from the darkest depths of his soul, he turned towards the edge of the cliff and hurled the dagger over it. It clanged on the rocks as it fell, like the siren song of vengeance, and splashed into the ocean waters below. Then he sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands to hide his shame. He had failed…failed to be a Lannister. He had not the stomach for it any more. If he could have called the dagger back to his hand…he would have fallen on it.

The ship was mooring. They could hear the sailors straining at the ropes and swearing down on the beach. Sansa approached him warily.

"Tyrion, come, come now, we must go." Her voice was like a mother's trying to soothe a child who had just thrown a fit. She extended her hand to him, trembling and bloodied though it was.

He gazed at it strangely. "I…I made you bleed…"

"It's only a scratch; I'll be fine."

"But… _I_ did it…I…"

"Please, please, no more," she begged. "Just…come."

"I thought more of you, Sansa Stark! I thought you were learning…that you would survive us all…" His voice was breaking like the waves on the shore. "You know what I am, and I know what you are, and…and…you're supposed to leave me, damn you! Why would you take such a risk? Why don't you…"

"Because." She reached her hand a little further towards him, and he saw her eyes were glistening like ocean glass. "Just _because_. Hate me if you like…but we Starks are as stubborn as the sea. And I'm not leaving without you. I'm not." She shook her head.

He forced himself to look up at her, ashamed and belittled by his stature. She sensed his humiliation, and knelt down to his own height, still with hand extended. She did not try to come any nearer to him, for fear of making him run or attack like a cornered animal; but still her hand was there, and the invitation of salvation open.

 _If only he would reach for it. Reach for it…reach…_

He reached. Just for the sense of touch again, just to show that he hadn't meant it, hadn't meant to hurt her. The feeling of her hand clutching his helped him stop shaking inside. He was tired, so tired…tired of the intensity of the hatred throttling against him and his own death-dealing hatred coursing out in return. It had burnt him out till he felt like nothing more than a blackened shell inside. He couldn't think anymore…for once, he stopped trying to think…so he did not fight back when she led him…led him away…


	2. Chapter 1: An Exchange of Hands

Chapter 1: An Exchange of Hands

 _One Month Later, in the Port of Caffe, Republic of Davneros_

It was beautiful and shiny and red. It was sitting snugly on the top of a barrel full of apples in the market, looking at her, talking to her, beckoning her to caress it with her slender fingers. She imagined the juicy sweetness on her tongue, the crisp crunch against her teeth. _She had to have it_ … _no matter the cost…_  
Sansa could not clearly recollect what happened after that. She vaguely remembered the feel of something in her hand, then running, falling, being struck again and again until she tasted blood on her lips. She did not even try to fight back, just as she had not fought back when Joffrey ordered her beaten black and blue at King's Landing. She was too much a lady… _curse it all_ …

She couldn't process everything that was happening. They had caught her, that was all she knew, and they were going to make her pay. They were dragging her forward, shouting and spitting at her. They accused her all at once; they convicted her within minutes. They shoved her down hard among some crates.

A burly butcher pulled out his meat cutting blade. Sansa whimpered and buried her face in the crate as they yanked out her hand. She was too petrified even to scream, just waiting for the severing of flesh and bone…

"Stop!" Tyrion shouted, in an authoritative voice that belied his lowly attire as he shuffled across the street, stubbornly squeezing his way through the crowd. Only his smallness of size enabled him to do so successfully. But he was still high born at heart and used to having his words heeded promptly. There was no way he could manage to dispense with his habitual manners so easily, exile or not. "Gods' teeth, what's this about?"

 _Oh, why did he always follow her when she went out?_ He tried not to let on, but he always did, and Sansa used to find it rather irksome…until now.

"What is it to you?" the butcher sneered, twisting her arm a little to demonstrate their power over her.

"Take your filthy hand off my lady," he growled.

They all cackled at this. "Your _lady_ , dwarf?"

Tyrion's eyes narrowed. "She is under my protection," he stated firmly.

"Aww, your pillow girl," the butcher mocked. "You must have paid a hard fare for this one to keep _your_ bed warm."

Tyrion turned red with rage, but controlled himself. "What has she done?" he asked in a measured tone.

"It turns out your little comforter is a thief."

"Thief…of what?" he demanded hoarsely, his eyes meeting Sansa's for the first time. They were shot through with terror.

"Look-y here!" someone in the crowd shouted, waving aloft the "evidence" of a bruised apple.

Tyrion grimaced.

"She's starving," he blurted, trying to mask the tremor in his voice. "Can't you see she's starving?"

 _And it was all his fault_. If he had not been a dwarf, he would not be passed up for work, and she would be able to eat as much as she wanted. Such was not the case, however, and the two of them had barely been able to keep body and soul together for all his honest efforts.

But the difference was that while he could bear up against the hunger well enough, she could not. Yes, her face pleaded for him to understand she _could not_. He had never felt so small, so helpless, as he did looking into her frightened eyes.

"Just ignore the half-thing and get on with it," another pedestrian crowd egged on the butcher.

"Wait, stop!" Tyrion's order hissed through his teeth, clenched against the cruelty towards a hunger-wracked child. "I said she was under _my_ protection, so…the crime should be on _my_ head. The punishment should fall on me."

Sansa's jaw dropped.

"What…?" the butcher drawled, accompanied by a hyena-like chorus of laughter.

"I said you should do your work on me," he affirmed.

"Are you calling _your_ dwarf hand a good exchange for this…soft, tender thing?" The butcher lifted Sansa's hand, and started stroking it sadistically.

"My hand is as much a loss to me as her hand would be to her," he reasoned, forcing down his temper with a super-human effort. Really, he wanted to swear every salty word he knew, and hack the butcher apart with his own tool. But he had to win this point. So he decided to change tactics slightly. "Wouldn't you like to find out how loud a dwarf can scream?" he queried with a challenging smirk. "Well…now's your best opportunity."

There was a pause, as if everyone could not believe that he could actually be jesting at a moment such as this, and then there was an uproar, and then…the unanimous consensus dictated they should take him up on the offer. And then there was chaos. Sansa was shoved roughly to the side, and Tyrion was put in her place among the crates.

Faced with this impending reality, he tried to focus on the positive points. Firstly, he had no intention of screaming at all, and would thus cheat them of their sport. Secondly…well, he was used to being gawked at; he could handle it. Going from a dwarf to a one-handed dwarf did not matter greatly in the way the public eye would see him. But such a hideous dismembering would kill Sansa, self-conscious, fragile thing that she was. Thirdly…he'd come up with something later…but right now…all he knew was that she had just screamed and fallen into a dead faint. And he saw the blade uplifted, glistening in the pale sun of winter…

"Hold, butcher," came a woman's deep voice, thick with a wanderer's accent. Her face was wrinkled with age, yet her eyes were clear, and her back was straight as a reed. She moved through the crowd without struggling, as they quickly gave her right of way. Tyrion let out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. _What in the name of the Seven was going on?_

"This last minute change of plans is becoming slightly redundant," he remarked in an effort to be nonchalant.

"I wouldn't complain, little man," she reprimanded him out of the corner of her mouth.

"I'm not exactly complaining, just making a very pointed observation," he shot back saucily. "Perhaps it's just me, but I do believe these gallant executors of the law are growing quite vexed at the constant interruptions."

"Shut up, dwarf," the butcher snapped. Then he turned to the woman. "What is it you want, Sauriel?"

 _Why the hell were they being so deferential towards her?_

"I am here to pay for the bruised apple." She pulled out three coins and placed them on the crate, next to Tyrion's outstretched hand. They were special coins…fortune telling coins. They had symbols on them. He grimaced as he made out a lion, a wolf, and an apple. _Did she know?_

"Don't you put a hex on me, woman!" the butcher bawled, taking a step back.

"It is no hex," she countered coolly. "I offer you a fair exchange for my neighbors."

Tyrion blinked. _Neighbors? Wait…yes, perhaps she was the one living in the apothecary shop at the corner of the street. Then she was…a healer?_

"I cast symbols of good fortune in exchange for their pardon," she continued. "The wolf is a survivor of the winter, the lion a provider of sustenance, and the apple is wisdom for eternity."

Tyrion exhaled. _Coincidence, or…?_

"…or I could take the coins back."

The butcher looked visibly disconcerted by that idea. "The last curse you laid killed a dog that had attacked the blacksmith's child. Would you ruin my business?"

"The dog destroyed itself through malice, as you will do this day if you refuse my coins," she countered. The crowd made garbled noises in response to the ominous prophecy. She turned to the fruit seller whose apple had been stolen. "And the same will fall upon you!"

Tyrion felt the urge to make a plucky remark about the superstitions of this country…but restrained himself. _Best to just let things play out as they are._

The butcher spit into a patch of snow on the street. "Enough with the dramatics. I'm willing to let it go if the others are. My stall wasn't robbed; I'm merely doing my civic duty…"

"I've had enough m'self," the fruit seller conceded. "Let 'em go."

The butcher finally unhanded Tyrion, who made his way over to the unconscious Sansa. "M'lady," he murmured, then bit his lip, seeing the bruises and lacerations on her face. Memories of Joffrey welled up in his mind, and his father, and his sister. _Oh, he wanted to kill them all so much…_

"Butcher, help get her off the street," he ordered.

At first the stocky man just cackled.

"Do as he says, butcher," Sauriel intoned. Grumbling, the butcher obeyed, and scooped her up into her muscular arms. Tyrion swallowed hard. He wanted to be able to do that…to carry her to safety like a real man would do, to feel the strength of protecting her with his body. _What was wrong with him?_

It was not a long walk from the market square to the side street cellar in which Tyrion and Sansa had been hiding. It was cold and damp inside, but at least it had managed to shield them from the frigid gales blowing in from the harbor, and the lashing white whip of the snow. The butcher dumped her in the corner as if she were a sack of potatoes. Something twisted inside Tyrion. It would be natural enough for people to treat _him_ like that…but she…she was _beautiful_ …she was a _lady_ …

"You've had your sport; now get your maggot-ridden carcass away from her!" He pointed demonstratively towards the entry.

He shrugged. "Do you fancy this to be your castle, dwarf?"

Tyrion wanted to say that he had indeed been accustomed to living in castles according to his birthright and could have him flayed if he proceeded with such insolence. But of course he knew he couldn't, so he bore up with the man's laughter as he skulked back outside.

Tyrion's gaze turned back towards the unconscious Sansa, who was now being tended by this strange woman Sauriel who knew far too much for his liking. Still, he was glad someone was taking care of her, as the mob had battered her quite badly, and he feared how she might react if he tried to touch her. Oddly enough, their relationship had grown even more distant after their encounter on the cliff, when Sansa had demonstrated some care for his welfare by risking his wrath in order to save him.

But now Tyrion still could not forgive himself for what almost happened. His knife, with her blood on it…he could never forget that horrible image. He might have killed her easily enough in that moment of ferocity, and spent the rest of his life destroying himself over it. Now he was afraid to acknowledge whatever reason she might have had for refusing to leave him behind, and afraid of growing too close to her. He was not right inside; he might hurt her again, by accident if not by intent. Best to keep away.

Indeed, for the past month of exile in Davneros, he had been very careful about maintaining his physical distance from her, even though they shared the same small grated cellar. He wanted to make sure she had her own space, and could go where she wanted…even if he did follow after her at a distance for protection's sake. They still had prices on their heads, after all.

Even if relations between them had been more amicable, he was insistent that they should not be seen together outside lest they make a conspicuous pair. He was most often the one who was out, scrounging for some mud-splattered, filth-laden job in the streets or in the docks, while she remained hidden in the hovel, curled up in the corner with a single blanket trying to keep warm.

Now he watched silently as Sauriel pulled down Sansa's rough peasant's dress to check the bruises on her shoulders. He had a hard time tearing away his gaze; his time spent among prostitutes had enhanced his weakness for naked beauty displayed in front of him. But he fought off the gaping impulse and focused instead of her face. He noticed a trickle of blood on her trembling lower lip. He suddenly had the impulsive yearning to kiss the blood away, and let the heat of his breath take the pain away from her. He clenched his fists very, very tight. _Stop lusting for her. She's only a child. Stop…_

Sauriel seemed to sense his inner struggle and snapped her sharp eyes on him. "She is very beautiful. And you are a man, living in this place alone with her, in the dead of winter. But she is still a virgin." She rested her hand on Sansa's abdomen indicatively.

"What of it?" he snapped, uncertain what these observations were intended to prove.

"So you must care for her very much." She squinted. "What binds you to her?"

He thought of lying outright, but determined this old woman was crafty enough to read through even his polished cunning. No, this time he would have to word the truth in a way that would not give away too much. "She has lost her family, though she is still only a child," he explained simply. "I am her sole guardian. It is a matter of necessity, not feeling."

The woman cackled. "I know men; say whatever you fancy, little man, but your eyes can never lay away your love for her."

He let them wander back to Sansa's sleeping form, then returned his focus Sauriel, his patience running thin. "I am sworn to keep the both of us alive until we can return…from whence we came." He stopped himself from going further.

"To avenge old wounds?"

 _Oh, she was reading him well….far too well._

"I don't see how it's any of your affair," he growled. "Indeed, I don't know why you're here at all."

"Perhaps I was sent."

"To sell us off, or slit our throats?!" he exploded. _Damn. What made him do that? Too much information…it had been too long of a day…_

Sauriel sighed heavily. "If you don't learn to trust someone aside from yourself, you are going to die, and so is she. She needs medicine, and food, and another woman to care for her…"

"I…cannot trust," he choked. "I have been given no reason to trust."

"And I am not able to give you one," she responded. "You must take that risk for her sake. You must find the courage to dare it."

"I have dared enough in my life," he whispered. "It never ends well."

The old woman looked at him, through him. "This world can be a place of great cruelty, but also of great kindness. You must never let the ravages of the one overtake the flowering of the other in your mind."

He shrugged, which caused him to shiver slightly. He hated that; he hated seeming weak. "My mind has armor, old woman. It can deal with the wars of this world, cut through them, and come out the victor still."

"But can you withstand the war within?" she questioned pointedly. "There are wolves at war in the heart of every man, lords of darkness and light, and in every choice we make, one or the other gains a victory. Be careful, for give too many victories to the one, and you will become him."

"I live as I must," he stated in a measured tone, "by cruelty or kindness, whichever may serve me best."

"And did it serve you best to offer your hand for the sake of the girl?"

He turned his eyes to the ground, and mumbled in a low tone, "I told you, I must care for her…I have to care for her, and I can only trust myself with such a task….no matter the cost. Once it is accomplished, I shall put away such acts for good and turn to a role that suits me far better…" His own menacing words seemed to slice him inside, and he spit out, "Does every man know the full reasons why he does a given thing?"

She shook her head solemnly, conceding the truth of his words. "Least of all you, little man." She stood up to leave. "Before I go, I ask you remember one thing."

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, woman?"

"It is the fool who takes a knife out to stab it into another," she stated, "but it is the wise one takes the knife, cuts the cord, and frees himself from the fools. Staying alive is not enough, not for her, or for you. It is what you are living for that matters." She gazed at the unconscious girl with a look of compassion, and then added to Tyrion, "You know where to find me if I am needed."

Then she was gone, leaving Tyrion alone to watch over his own broken lady and face up to his own inner darkness.


	3. Chapter 2: A Matter of Trust

Chapter 2: A Matter of Trust

One week later, on a dark and blizzard-whipped early morning, Sauriel heard a weak knocking at the door of her shop. She opened it to find her neighbor the dwarf standing there, looking even more disheveled than he had at their first meeting. His face was scruffy, his eyes bloodshot, and the scent of hard liquor was on his breath. Beyond that, she could tell the effects of frostbite and starvation were finally beginning to take their natural toll.

"It's…m'lady," he slurred, struggling to clarify his meaning. "She needs help from you…please…"

"What's wrong with her?" Sauriel demanded.

"She's bleeding…badly," he informed her. "Hemorrhaging…the monthly curse. She's very weak…"

"And you were out drinking meanwhile?"

He shut his eyes tight. "I am wicked," he muttered, then laughed strangely before breaking into a partial sob. He looked back at Sauriel, trying hard to focus his gaze. "She needs you. She's frightened…she's only a little girl…and I…I scare her…"

"I thought you didn't trust me."

"I…don't, but…I have…no choice…"

"At last you embrace the risk," she sighed, throwing on her cloak.

He shook his head, suddenly seeming to be overwhelmed by his own misgivings. _Oh, how much he was risking…_

"They…they'd pay more for me…they want me more than her…if you were of a mind, you'd be wiser to turn me in…than her…she's only a girl…"

"Who would offer such a price for you?"

Tyrion chortled then froze, unable to move or speak, the alcohol swirling in his mind, washing over his scattered thoughts, the scattered faces and cruel sneers that haunted him.

 _No, no, no… no, please…they'd hurt her if they had her…they'd strip her bare and hurt her, and break her, and beat her bloody if she cried, and drown out her screams with a cloth…and they'd steal her voice away…oh, no, no, no…_

"Yes," he drawled. "Who, indeed…?"

Then everything went black.

Tyrion awoke to a splitting headache, and a shaky feeling in his limbs. He was laying on some straw with a blanket over him, in some room filled with hanging herbs and shelves of preserved fruit. _What…happened…?_

"Little man," came that same deep voice from the market.

"Must you keep calling me that, hag?" he groaned. Then his full awareness flooded back. He sat up and questioned blearily, "How long have I been here?"

"Since the morning," she replied. "It's close to midnight now. You're lady is by the fire." Her expression darkened. "You should have had me come much sooner than you did. She's not faring well."

He turned his eyes down. _How could he have gone off and gotten drunk when she needed him most?_ He had just been afraid, afraid to face up to failing her. After he could find no other work, and she fell ill, he could not bear to see her in pain, in panic, and his own presence seemed to add to it. So he had gone out…drank until he couldn't feel anything anymore. Upon returning, he had found her crumpled up on the ground, her clothes and hands all bloody as she rasped for help. That's when he had decided to had to get help…no matter the risk.

"You should go see her now," Sauriel advised.

"I am certain I could do no good for her," he confessed. "She would only be distraught to see my face."

"She needs you! She needs someone who can understand what she's gone through." Sauriel exhaled. "She's said a lot, these past hours. I can only make sense of a fraction of it. She must be understood, or she will kill herself from the strain of trying to be and failing to get through."

Tyrion grimaced. _The old one must know everything now. Everything…oh…_

"She needs you to be her friend."

"Friend?!" Tyrion burst out. "You can't…can't be serious…"

"I've never been more serious in all my days on this earth," she declared. "She – needs – you, or she will starve to death in the heart. You're the only one who can share her history, and her history is the key to her heart. She's panicked; she needs to be calmed down."

"I would just panic her all the worse," he insisted. "I can't…I'm part of her pain…"

"And if she dies because you won't try?" Sauriel eyed him harshly. "What a small man you are, then." With that, she left to go care for her patient.

Tyrion lay there silently for a long time. Then the quiet began to gnaw away at his heart, and it finally broke with the sound of a moan from another part of the shop. He forced himself to his feet, and followed it to where Sansa lay outstretched on a cot, with bloodied rags all around her. Sauriel saw him approach, and swiftly left him alone with her.

Sansa looked up at him with feverish eyes, her mind a jumble of the past and present. Her eyes flitted briefly to the bloodied rags, and then her own blood-stained shift. "They said…a Lannister would…put a son in my belly, once I had bled." She was trembling spasmodically. "If I open my legs, do you think…I will…bleed much more?"

"Sansa…" he croaked, not sure how to respond as she started to shakily pull open the top buttons of her shift. "Sansa, stop, stop it!" He grabbed both her wrists.

She shrank back, her exposed breast heaving. "Please…don't tear my clothes…I can take them off myself…please…let me do it…"

He felt fierce tears stinging his eyes. "You are no whore! You…you are my…" His voice cracked, and he awkwardly began to button up her shift again. "We're…friends. You must believe that."

She whimpered softly. "I…I can't stop…sh…sh…shaking….help me…help me stop…" She bit down on her trembling lower lip.

"Sansa…I can try, but you must…trust me, or it will do no good." He touched her face gently. "You don't have to look at me, just…trust me."

She squeezed her eyes shut as he eased his way beneath the covers alongside her on the cot. He reached his small arm around her slender shoulder as best he could and pulled her close. Her entire frame tightened automatically, as if awaiting an onslaught of pain.

"Sansa, please," he choked, hurt beyond words at her bodily revulsion. "I'm just trying to keep you warm…keep you from shivering."

She squirmed, struggling to find a position of comfort. "They said…if I couldn't bear you a son…they'd let the guards ravage me…and…when they were done, they'd cut my throat…"

"Oh, my love," he murmured, pressing his face into her hair. "I'd have cut all their throats before letting them lay a hand on you."

His words seemed to register deep within her, and her body relaxed more. He took this as a positive sign, and started gently massaging her shoulder.

"That's it, just rest…you're safe with me, I promise," he assured her.

He felt her tears seeping through his shirt as she nuzzled her face against his shoulder. "It hurts…inside…so much."

"I know it does," he whispered. "It…hurts inside me, too."

"Then…whatever will we do?"

"We'll get better together, we'll heal inside someday, you'll see…" He felt the tears running down his face now. He had very little hope of ever being healed himself, but he was determined that she should have some hope to cling to all the same. She was still young…her broken heart could be put back together again. She still had a whole life ahead of her, and a chance to meet that handsome and gentle knight she had always dreamed of who would court and marry her like a true nobleman would, and make her the mother of beautiful children.

He inhaled the lemon scent that lingered about her hair from Sauriel washing it, and he shut his eyes tight against the pain of his own lack. "As long as you need me, I'll be here for you," he vowed. "And when you don't need me anymore…when you find someone who can be everything to you…I'll go far away, and you'll never have to see my face again."

Too late to gauge her reaction; she was already asleep. _Thank the gods_. He felt himself lost in the soft depth of her breathing and the flutter of her heart so very close to his own. He could not determine if he slept at all that night or not, for in waking or sleeping, she was his single ribbon of thought, strung through his ribs and wrapped around his heart.

 _She trusts me….she trusts me…she trusts me…oh…my love…_

When the first rays of the dawn filtered through the shop window, glistening off the icicles hanging from the roof, Tyrion found himself smiling at the beauty of them. It had been years since he had smiled at something so random, but the world somehow seemed deserving of it that morning, even if his smile _did_ make him look sinister, as his sister had always insisted. It mattered not.

 _He was trusted. He was needed. At least for a little while…_

Very slowly, he started to pull himself away from her so that he could get up without disturbing her. She was slumbering very deeply, and her breathing was peaceful, at long last. She wasn't shivering at all now. He smiled at the sight of her, and very, very softly let his lips touch her forehead. Then he pulled himself up, and prepared to go hunting for work yet again.

When Sansa awoke, she found Sauriel kneeling over, helping to change her bloodied linen. She felt very weak, but also strangely peaceful. "He held me," she whispered, "all night…in his arms…so I wouldn't shiver…" She closed her eyes and smiled slightly. "He was…warm…"

Sauriel raised one eyebrow. "Well, my little sparrow, I think…you will be well now. The bleeding has slowed, and your fever seems to have lifted. Now all you need is to rest and build up your strength again. I'll make you some hot soup. A witch is always best at her cauldron."

She winked and then started back into the kitchen.

"He held me…" she heard Sansa repeat softly, as the she drifted back to sleep. "In his arms…all night…he held me…"


	4. Chapter 3: What Friends Do

Chapter 3: What Friends Do

Tyrion returned to the apothecary shop early the following morning, just before the sun rose and its rays splintered down the side streets. Sauriel met him with a cross expression on her face.

"And where did you disappear to for so long? I thought you'd gone off and left her on my doorstep for good, like a baby in a bundle…"

He promptly snatched up her hand, and pressed a coin into it. "No fortune telling tricks this time," he twitted. "This is the real thing."

"How did you manage to come upon this tender morsel, pray tell?" she queried suspiciously

"Gutter cleaning," he provided, somewhat glibly, which made her question whether it was true or not. But judging from the way his clothes wreaked of the street, she figured he was probably on the level after all.

"Well, at least you're not drunk," she conceded.

"And at least I don't leave my debts unpaid," he added. "Now, please tell me…how is m'lady faring?"

"You'll be pleased to know that warm food, a fresh change of clothes, and a little understanding has done wonders." She raised one eyebrow. "And I must say you were not altogether unhelpful in the latter area. She seemed rather taken with your touch."

Tyrion looked shocked and then rather upset. "I was not trying to 'take her' with anything," he protested. "Believe me, I know how to pleasure women well enough, but that is _not_ what I was doing last night."

"I was not suggesting that was your intent," she clarified, "only that she is young, and innocent, and the touch of a man is new to her. And you touched her with softness and kindness and made her feel safe. She is surprised herself that it was possible to feel such things in association with you."

"That I can imagine," he exhaled.

"But more than anything, she just needs you there for her. She needs that kindness you showed on a daily basis if her health is to be restored."

He grimaced. "I am not a man of honor. I can only keep up the façade of being decent sort for so long before something breaks. Pretending to be someone I'm not can only last to a point. And I don't want to hurt her worse when the mask slides, even if the mask was put on with all the best intentions."

"I never suggested you should try to be someone else," she countered. "Only be what you were meant to be, and that will be flowing from what you truly are."

"I'm having a hard time following you," he confessed.

"Don't follow me then," she twitted. "Follow the voice inside yourself that you have thus far been unable to silence altogether. It will not lead you wrong. Now go inside; Sansa's been waiting for you."

Sansa was sitting up in a chair by the hearth, snugly wrapped up in blankets and a shawl, with a cup of steaming tea in her hands. Her hair had been combed back and braided, and while she still seemed extremely weak, she looked far superior to the way she had two nights before. Her eyes fell on Tyrion, and he responded with an awkward little wave. Yes, it was very silly looking, and she responded with a sheepish smile. He loved seeing her face like that…perhaps, he thought, he should wave at her more often.

"How are you feeling, Sansa?" he inquired.

"Better," she acknowledged. "Sauriel has been very good to me." She paused, and then added, "So have you."

He blushed deeply, but before he could answer, Sauriel came in and stood up another chair alongside Sansa's. It was slightly taller than hers. Tyrion looked at the chair, and then back at Sansa with a quizzical expression. "Is she trying to break something to be gently?"

Again, Sansa smiled and her eyes danced a little.

"I just don't want your neck to be strained," Sauriel clucked.

"My neck is like an owl's, short but with an excellent range of movement, all from years of rigorous use…"

"An owl needs a perch," she trumped him, gesturing to the chair.

Tyrion rolled his eyes, but finally obliged, clumsily clambering atop it. "There; satisfied?"

"Overcome with ecstasy," she trilled dramatically, exiting the room.

Simultaneously, he and Sansa both burst into a moment's laughter. Then they grew serious again, realizing just how close in proximity they were to each other. The strangeness of being on eye level with her made him feel increasingly self-conscious. This also made him decide to do what Sauriel had suggested and try to speak his mind as honestly as he could.

"I…haven't been particularly kind to you this past month. I mean…I'm afraid that I should have tried harder to…provide you with some…emotional support."

"Tyrion," she addressed him softly, "last week, you almost had your hand chopped off in exchange for mine. You've been working yourself to the bone to keep us both alive…"

"That's all well and good," he conceded, "but it's not the same as really being there for you. I just…didn't want to impose myself on you, especially after everything that's happened." He exhaled. "Especially after throwing the knife. That was the pinnacle; the perfect end to a perfectly horrendous marriage if ever there was one."

"You just…reacted," she excused him. "I don't think you were even taking aim."

"I wasn't," he assured her. "If I had been, you wouldn't be here."

The look on her face confirmed his suspicion that his choice of words was not the most diplomatic way of putting it.

"What I'm trying to say is that…I would never intentionally cause you harm, but there are still too many ways of unintentionally causing harm, so…I didn't want to run the risk by growing too close to you because the opportunities of accidentally hurting you might increase."

 _Did that really made any sense at all, he wondered? Or was he just a coward, pure and simple, and terrified of being hurt himself…yet again?_

She looked at him thoughtfully. "But now?"

"But now…I've been thinking. I've come to the conclusion that the bulk of our problems has derived from our trying to function as an estranged couple trapped in the bonds of unwanted matrimony. But in this country we are beyond Westeros law. We can live free from such shackles, and yet still have a chance to become…friends."

"Friends," she repeated meditatively.

"It will no doubt take a bit of getting used to for both of us, but if we agree to trying it out in unison…I believe it just might just work out in the end." He filled out his chest with a full breath. "So…want to give it a stab?" _Oh, bad, bad turn of phrase!_ "Er…what I mean is…"

"Yes," she answered simply.

"Oh," he sighed in relief. "Good."

They were silent for a few moments.

"So what do friends do?" she inquired.

He shrugged. "Considering how few of them I've had in my life, I'm really no expert. But I suppose getting to know each other better would be a good start. For all we've been through, we're still practically strangers to each other."

"Would you like to…ask me anything?" she queried.

"Umm…yes," he decided. "For starters…what do you enjoy doing? I mean, what makes you happy? What did you do in your spare time at Winterfell?"

The mention of her old home made her eyes twinge, and Tyrion regretted speaking it. But she went on to answer anyway. "As you know, I've always liked to sew. I made my own dresses, and helped embroider tapestries with images from the stories I used to read."

"Right, reading," he latched upon that, "what did you like to read?"

She looked down. "Things that you probably never heard of, or if you did hear of them…wouldn't find very stimulating."

He smirked. "Try me."

"You'll find them pathetically childish."

"Sweet Sansa, just tell me."

"Oh, just old books of legends and poetry and prayers and…things." She met his slightly amused gaze. "Have you ever heard of Ser Trevelyan de Chancer?"

"Author of 'The Scarlet-Fringed Rose'", he responded smartly.

Her eyes widened. "I am quite surprised you would know that. He's an obscure poet."

"Whatever else my father may have been to me when I was growing up, he did have an extensive library, and I made full use of it," he explained. "I'd read the entire thing by age 12. So I may be stunted in growth, but not in my literary knowledge."

"But I thought such a library would only contain historical and political material."

"Well, it did contain copious amounts of that, but…my mother's books were still there too. And she evidently loved poetry." He smiled softly. "If I'd known you favored de Chancer, I would have gotten you white roses fringed with scarlet for the wedding." He felt rather silly for bringing up that affair, and muttered, "Not that I expect it would have helped any, but…perhaps it would have taken your mind off the Lannister gold you had to wear, at least a little bit."

She blushed at his efforts towards kindness. "I used to grow them myself at Winterfell. There was a lovely full bush of them just below my window that blossomed every spring and remained until summer faded." She paused momentarily, and then asked, "What's your favorite flower?"

The question clearly caught him off-guard, and he broke down in an embarrassed chuckle. "I honestly can't say I've given _that_ much thought."

"There were so many lovely varieties in the gardens at King's Landing…"

"They were Cersei's," Tyrion spat, unable to disguise the bitterness that came with the memories. "I could not see them as anything but poisonous."

He quickly regretted his harshness, which seemed to make Sansa ashamed to have inquired to begin with. In truth, being asked such a simple, innocent question by her made him feel deeply human, in a way that a lifetime's worth of questions about geo-political complexities, military strategies, and brothel orgies never could.

"I think…I remember something," he offered gently. "When I was quite young, I went exploring by myself in the wooded area just beyond Casterly Rock. There was this old wall built ages before, crumbled and covered in moss, and growing through the cracks were these glorious wild flowers, small but sturdy, and unfettered by anything or anyone." A certain strain of melancholy crept into his voice. "I went back every day and studied them, and felt terribly good that I might stare at something beautiful without frightening it away…" He stopped short. _He was talking far too much. But it felt good to get it all out…and somehow she seemed to understand._ "Well…well, I made a pact with myself never to pick one of those flowers, and kept it for a long time. But ultimately I broke it…and I took one back with me. Cersei found it, and must have known where it came from. She was only 11 at the time, but still had her way with the guards. The next time I went back to the wall, they were all torn out."

"Tyrion…"

"But, yes, the point of my boring you to death with all that was to say…yes, those would be the kind of flowers I would like, I suppose." He tried grinning to cover himself, then thought better of it, and let it fade quickly.

Sansa looked at him hard, bearing down with a pressure on his throbbing heart. "If I had been your sister, instead of Cersei…if we had grown up together like that…I would never have done anything like that to you, ever."

"Of course not," he whispered, daring a small smile. "If we grew up together, I think we could easily have been…good friends." His eyes grew wide for a moment. "By the gods, Sansa, I just thought of something. I think we _did_ meet before…before King's Landing."

"What? When? How…?"

"Yes, yes…I saw you when you were a small child, at a feast given at Winterfell. It was very long ago, so it's no mystery if you can't remember it. You couldn't have been more than 5 or 6 at the time. But…yes, I remember it now. You were the red-headed little girl sitting near your mother at the great table. Yes…you were a beautiful child, even then."

Her cheeks flushed pink again. Tyrion adored her weakness for flattery.

"I don't know why I never thought of it before now! It must have been the chaos of everything and… I probably got myself fall-down drunk at the feast at any rate." This rang another distant bell in his brain, but it was fleeting, and he was unable to grasp exactly what it was he was supposed to remember from that event.

"I think…I might remember, a very little bit…" She pursed her lips together. "I think my nurse said something about a dwarf who might…make bad jokes."

He laughed hard at this. "That's a concisely accurate summary! I can only imagine what she might have thought about the genius notion of making you share a bed with me…"

"She never knew," Sansa blurted, pain scratching at her throat. "They killed her before…" She couldn't go on, but pulled the blanket tighter around her.

"Oh, I'm…so sorry," he apologized, tongue-tied with shame. "I didn't know…I forgot…I'm terrible…"

"You're not terrible," she countered. "And…I liked having you share my bed. I mean…I don't mean…I…"

"I know what you mean, dear," he assured her. "Like…the other night?"

She nodded timidly.

Slowly, he reached across to her chair and touched her hand. "If you want me to, I'll do so again. If not, I won't. It's up to you."

She gazed at his hand on top of hers, and decided directly, "I do."


	5. Chapter 4: Sansa's Hymn

Chapter 4: Sansa's Hymn

And it so it was that Tyrion Lannister came to share Sansa Stark's straw-stuffed mattress in the small apothecary shop on the corner of a back alley street in a tiny republic on the fringes of the civilized world, where even the wisps of rumor were often cloaked by the sea mist. The cruel life of privilege they head led in Westeros seemed to have melted away in all but memory, and their new world of privation in Davneros offered a chance, if only a slim one, to grow together as their open wounds slowly began to close.

Of course, Tyrion still had to struggle against his burning desire to claim Sansa as his own in the flesh. But there was something deeper at work within him, and that deeper something found solace in all that she was and would be, stark in inner beauty as a wild rose in the snows or a star glittering through clouds. If he could not have the moon, he could still glory in the stars. A fleeting smile, a gaze of trust, a trembling touch, like wind on the grass…his life became hinged on such signs of something deeper, deeper yet.

And then there was Sauriel. A spy, a wanderer, a witch? A mystic, a healer, a crone? All of the above? Tyrion could not decide. But whatever she was, she had kept them from the halls of the dead and taken them into her home, ostensibly for the sake of Sansa's health. Or perhaps to betray them, as Tyrion feared. But he had no choice in the matter. If they did not accept her hospitality, they would surely perish; this winter happened to be the fiercest on record in this part of the world, and continuing to sleep in the cellar would surely have been their bane. They would have to rest upon the rule of percentages, that after all the cruelty they had met with thus far in life, kindness had finally found its way to them.

Tyrion continued to dutifully do whatever odd jobs he could find to help defer costs for room and board. Sauriel never asked for payment, and yet given that she did keep a roof over their heads and warm food in their bellies, Tyrion felt indebted. He was a Lannister, after all, and Lannisters always pay their debts. Meanwhile, on the days when Sansa was feeling stronger, Sauriel started to teach her about the herbalist craft. She seemed interested by it, and even offered to help with customers around the shop.

Although Tyrion still had his reservations about the old woman, he had to admit that he was getting to like her quite a bit. They were rather similar, given to wise-cracks and practical assessments, and knit together by their concern for Sansa's welfare. And she really was helping the teenager by giving her another woman to talk with as something of a mother-figure. Indeed, he began to think that having a daughter-figure to mother was of more worth to the lonely healer than his trickling payments.

But the bulk of the emotional weight still fell upon Tyrion, for while Sauriel did her best to keep her preoccupied during the day, Sansa would often wake up screaming during the long nights of winter, running through the horrible scenes of her past in her disquieted mind. It was on these occasions that he had to hold her tight against him until she calmed down. It was always very dark during such scenes, and he felt safe in the reality that she could not see him. Indeed, she was often far too upset, caught somewhere between nightmare and waking memory, to even acknowledge who was trying to comfort her. But his touch was always soft, and his words were always soft, and it was in these moments when she seemed to truly find comfort in him, some type of instinctive need to be held against the body of another who she sensed would not bring her harm.

But Tyrion only learned just how accustomed she had become to sleeping alongside him when he decided to travel inland to neighboring towns in search of better employment. It was his hope to find a job based upon intellect as opposed to brawn, and he planned to be away for several days. Sansa had given him a strange look he could not define before parting, uncertain whether it was regret or relief upon contemplating his coming absence.

When he returned three days later, bursting with enthusiasm after having finally secured a position as a clerk, Sauriel met him at the door. It was late at night, so he could not make out her expression completely, but he immediately sensed her mood was downcast.

"You're back," she greeted him dully.

"Please, don't put up such a struggle to contain your unbounded joy," he twitted. Then he noticed a certain gleam in her eye by the light of the moon. Something was wrong.

"Sansa…is she…?"

"She's…in one piece. But she has not been well." She gazed at him levelly. "She tried to kill herself."

Tyrion took a step back, too overcome to speak. After collecting himself, he ordered hoarsely, "Take me to her."

Sauriel led him to the back pantry where she had evidently locked up his lady. "Was that really necessary?" he snapped.

"Very," Sauriel assured.

He exhaled as the door was opened and he beheld Sansa, slumping listlessly against the wall. He saw scarlet wrappings on her wrists.

"So while the cat's away, the wolf will play," he quipped bitterly. "Play with knives, it seems. Are you trying to pay me back for some evil, m'lady?"

She turned her face away, and her hair fell over it like a veil. "Why don't you all just let me go, just let me die…"

"Because we care about you, damn it!"

Sansa stared at Tyrion, her eyes wide. Sauriel clicked her tongue.

He exhaled and turned to the older woman in frustration. "Sauriel, help me! You're not helping me!"

"This is your affair, little man. You are her… _friend_."

"Don't give me that, hag," he blurted. "Just…don't."

"Your high strung temperament is certainly not improving the mood."

"To hell with my temperament; she just tried to kill herself!"

"So why shouldn't she?"

"What?!"

"That's what you need to answer…why shouldn't she just end it all? You have to give her a reason."

"Would you please stop talking about me like I'm some child or animal or I'm not even here?" she moaned, and then broke down in a sob.

Tyrion turned to Sauriel. "Give me a minute alone with her." The healer nodded, and left him at the threshold.

He started to approach his lady slowly. She cocked her head up, and her eyes were shimmering with sorrow. "Are you going to hit me?" she queried dejectedly.

"By the gods," Tyrion sighed in exasperation. "Why would I want to do that?"

She chewed on her lower lip. "I deserve to be disciplined, I suppose."

He grimaced. "Did Joffrey make you feel that much like a dog?"

"Well, you did strike _him_ when you had reason to…"

"You think I'd treat you the same as my vile bastard of a nephew?"

She thought about it for a moment, and then shook her head.

"Alright, then." He gazed into her eyes deeply, trying to read them, to understand what thoughts were coursing through her mind. "Why would you try to do such a thing to yourself, Sansa? Tell me, why? Do you not care at all about how hard others have been trying to keep you safe and help you get well? It would hurt us…hurt _me_ …very, very much to lose you in such a way. Did you not know that?"

She looked down, ashamed. "It was the nightmares, Tyrion."

"You've had nightmares before and never did this."

"But this was a different sort of nightmare. And…and you weren't here to talk to me about it, and I just couldn't tell Sauriel, I couldn't…"

He breathed out again. "Tell me about it now then."

She blinked. "It was…about my mother."

"You saw her death again?"

"No…I mean, yes…well, it was different… _she_ was different." Her lower lip started to tremble.

"Different in what way?"

"I…I can't describe it right, but…her heart…it was all gone. _She_ was gone, but I saw her image looking back at me, from a mirror. Her eyes were dead like stone, and she had a bloodied knife…oh, Tyrion, they said she lost her mind before the end, that she slashed the throat of a defenseless lady…and in the mirror, she was me, and I was her…all eaten up inside and hallowed out, raving mad with blood on my hands…I was a monster…"

"Sansa, you are not going mad, and you are not a monster."

"Yes, I am! And I don't want to…don't want my heart ripped out, I don't want to turn into glass…I want to die before… "

"No, Sansa!" he shouted. "You must survive this, you must…" He breathed deeply, and forced himself to calm down. "This wretched world needs you to survive, Sansa. You have come so very far, and withstood so very much. That is why, since you have been a part of my life, I have come to care for you dearly. Not just the little girl I first saw being flogged, but the lady Sansa Stark, beautiful and strong…and with a heart of the finest quality. And the world needs…quality like that. It's rare, and priceless, and…makes life worth living."

She had lifted her head back up and was staring at him, mystified. He decided to take this as an encouraging sign and continued on, a certain poetic sensibility manifesting itself in his words. _He could allow this side of himself to be seen by her…and she would not mock him for it…_

"Tell me, are you the same girl who sang at Blackwater, sang out your heart when the battle was raging? Did you stand on the parapet when the fire's heat singed the sky? Were you the only one praying from the heart when night slid over the earth like black mud? Did you ask the gods to soothe the wrath and tame the fury, and teach us all a kinder way?"

"I was praying to the Mother, font of all mercies," she whispered. "I had to…get the words out…to pray for myself, and not with the words of others."

He drew closer to her. "I heard you sing. It cut me more cruelly than any sword could. For you meant every word of it, no more lies, no more games…" He swallowed hard. "No more play-acting, Sansa. On that day, even a scheming, wenching cynic like me could have died for the love of your song. They could beat you and tear at you, but they could not steal your voice. They could not mold you into their own image, like they did with me. And I was so…proud of you."

He clutched her thin, trembling hands in his own, and winced at the site of the bloodied rags tied tight around her wrists. "Sansa, listen to me. There's a fire burning in you, with flames so pure no one can put a price on its worth. I'll never be pure like that, in body, mind, or soul, but sometimes when I look at you, I wish…" He paused, rethinking what he was saying. "I think that maybe…if I could help keep that fire alive, even keep a spark glowing inside you, then…my life might not be wasted altogether. And if I can know that you are alive and well, I can crawl back under whatever rock I came from and face the end like a man. Like a _man_ , dear Sansa…for once."

She sniffled and turned her eyes down. He felt one of her tears fall on their joined hands. It rested on one of her fingers like a jewel, then slid over onto his own. _How precious it was, more precious than the most costly wedding band. Oh, mother of mercies, if only all eyes could cry such tears, and soften stone._ Very gently, he pressed her moist fingers against his lips. She did not pull them away.

"You must promise me never to hurt yourself like that again," he pleaded. "You will do that, won't you?"

She nodded, her eyes still turned down.

"Sansa, look me in the eyes…please. I must know you mean it."

Slowly she lifted her head and fixed her eyes on his. They did nothing for a very long time but search out each other's gaze with hands still tightly entwined.

"Now, I don't mean for you to get dizzy and fall into my miss-matched vision vortex," he dared to tease. "Your pretty eyes may get terribly crossed up. Plus, the green and gray contrast might just make you sea-sick. Better just promise and get it done, yes?"

"I don't mind your eyes," she responded shyly. "Really, I don't. They took me a while to get used to, because I felt like I couldn't read them, but now…I've learned. And I've learned to trust them."

He squeezed her hands a little at her words. "So…will you trust them with your promise now?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Upon my honor."

"As a daughter of the most honorable Eddard and Catelyn Stark, your word is enough for me."

His honoring of her parents made her smile sadly.

"Now it is late, my love. You must get some rest, and we can have a long talk in the morning."

He helped her stand – for a dwarf, he could be incredibly strong when he had to be – and escorted her to her cot.

"Are you…staying with me tonight?" she questioned as he helped get her tucked in.

"Of course, if you'd like," he assured. "I just plan on paying a visit to the kitchen briefly beforehand."

She nodded, remembering that he had gone without supper. As he turned to leave, she called after him. "I…I just wanted to tell you that…at Blackwater…when I prayed…I did…think of you. You had been kind to me, and…I truly did want you to come back safe."

He turned back to her, and rasped "A prayer from you is surely a gift I do not deserve. But…I thank you all the same."

Feeling emotionally drained, Tyrion wandered into the kitchen and found a bottle of Sauriel's formula for head colds. In addition to whatever herbal combinations the essence contained, he knew for a fact that it also had a healthy percentage of alcohol. Thirstily, he seized the bottle, tore off the lid, and began to drink. It burned his throat, but sent a warming, tingling sensation down into his belly. It loosened his tight-strung nerves…

"I wouldn't overdo that, little man," Sauriel warned from behind him.

He turned around with a jolt. "I thought you said this was medicine," he challenged.

"Yes," she conceded. "To a point. But I have an inkling that Lannister lions specialize in excess."

Tyrion's frame stiffened. It was the first time she had said the name of his house aloud in his presence, although he had suspected she knew the truth all along, and Sansa's fits would only have filled in whatever information was lacking. Still, the verbal use of it made him feel exposed and vulnerable. Their fate lay squarely in her hands. If she had mind, she could easily crush them with her long, bony fingers.

But somehow…he did not believe that she would. He thought he had long ago given up on trusting anyone, but her eyes were clear as white light piercing blue water. There was no second shade to them, no gleam of gold lust or dagger's edge. They were the eyes of a seer between the worlds and the ribs of men, where the heart resides.

"Indeed, we excel at excess," he bragged in a shallow tone, gulping down another mouthful. Then he put the bottle down, and pressed his hand to his forehead. He felt some pounding pain welling up inside, overwhelming him with a hot surge of remorse. She saw it in him; he knew she did. There was no point in hiding it any longer.

"When the final tally is taken," he began tremulously, "how many Sansas do you think have been crushed in the flower of their innocence? How many maidens raped, and little children maimed, and honorable men laid low? More than I have ever cared to count, I wager." He clenched his fists hard. "And I…played the game. Up to the hilt, with my mind as the blade. I watched the river of blood flow by me, and did little to slow its course. I rationalized it, relished in it, and took whatever I could get through how much blood my own barbed wit could draw. Because it is the way of the world, you see, that cruelty must be met with cruelty. That is why we have survivors, and victors, and petty lords of life and death who rule their little courts till some cat of a different coat claws them down." He lifted the bottle again, in a mock toast. "So credit is due to this twisted creature, this true-born Lannister, who got his precious taste of power…" He set the bottle down hard on the table, and concluded with broken-voiced, bitter sarcasm, " _Here me roar_."

Sauriel observed him solemnly. "You are your mother's son," she stated without explanation, "more so than any of her other children."

He gaped in astonishment. _How could she know of any such thing?_ "I…killed my mother at birth, and in doing so, killed whatever good may have been in my father."

"No," she countered. "She gave her life for you… _to_ you. And now that love lives on in you. Her heartbeat is the conscience you have been unable to suppress all these years. You've tried beating it and clawing it to death, you have tried to outwit it, and make it drunk with the wine of self-indulgence. But you could never kill it, never kill _her_. She is still alive through her son. Is that not the greatest legacy any mother could pass on?"

He was silent for a long while, gazing mystified passed Sauriel into the unknown. "She never even saw me, her demon child. I was all twisted up when I came forth from her body, couldn't move right, had to be straightened…and my face…any mother would have screamed at such a sight…and she was beautiful, everyone said how beautiful she was…" He blinked back sudden, unexpected tears. "One of the few mercies of her death was that she never had to see it, never had to hold or give her milk to a little monster. It would have only gotten worse…watching me try to walk, and knocking things down, and getting all bloody scraped up…she would have hated every moment of it, cursed every breath I took…"

"She would never have hated you."

"Yes, she would…"

"She would have loved you, and nursed you, and wiped the blood away."

"No!"

"She loves you now." Sauriel pinioned his eyes back with her gaze. "She always has."

He froze on the spot. "Let me alone, Sauriel," he choked. "I must…not dwell on such things. Sansa needs me. Your sorcery cannot stop her nightmares. She needs me…"

"Of course she does," Sauriel agreed. "Go to her now."

And so he did. But all through the night, it was the healer's words that screamed in the silence of his soul.


	6. Chapter 5: A New Year

**Greetings, following! Wow! I'm really grateful for all the follows, favorites, and comments I've received since the beginning of this story! It's definitely turned into my most popular fanfiction story to date, and I'm particular inspired to be followed by so many other talented authors in the GoT fanfiction realm**. **Long Live Sanrion! ;)**

 **So…per some of the feedback I've received as to the dark nature of the story so far, I've taken a shot at writing a "happy" chapter to break up all the emotional intensity and heart-break. Okay, so it's not** ** _entirely_** **happy, but still…much more light-hearted overall than some of the previous ones.** **Sorry if it feels a tad incongruent with the previous mood, but hope you enjoy anyway!**

Chapter 5: A New Year

The old year was ebbing out, and the new one flowing in. And Tyrion, now that he had a better paying job as a clerk, was determined that he should make a decent start of it for his one-time bride. Sadly, though, it seemed that Sansa was fairly determined to be depressed on that occasion. Ever since her suicide attempt, her moods had varied from day to day, and it frustrated him to no end. It felt that yet another shield wall had been thrown up between them, and he was unsure how to penetrate it.

Sometimes she seemed grateful for his efforts to converse with her, and other times she acted annoyed by or even disdainful of his presence. She could be sullen and give him the silent treatment, or worse take snappish jabs that wounded him to the core. Sauriel insisted that she deserved a good spanking on such days for her lack of appreciation shown to her protector.

But Tyrion could not find it in his hear to be truly angry with her over it, not when he recalled how she had braved his very ugliest side on the coast of Westeros and still extended her hand when he needed it most. And he knew that often enough, she was not snapping at him personally as much as at the banner of his house, bleeding red in the rain of her own thoughts. He pondered how he might handle what she had already been through in the jaws of the Lannister lions, and realized that his temperament would probably deal with it in a far more destructive fashion.

But still…he kept trying to break through her self-erected barrier on a daily basis. He had to. It meant as much to his own state of mind as it did to hers. It was their only chance of getting better together, though the chance admittedly hung by a slim thread. Hence, he decided to recruit Sauriel to help him with something extra special for the coming of the New Year. After some small protest about him potentially wasting his time, she agreed to assist.

So it was that Tyrion came home on New Year's Eve with a basket in his hand. Sansa was seated by the window, gazing out into the torch lit street with a strange gleam in her eye. He set the basket down alongside her chair.

"I've gotten you a present for the new year," he said brightly, like a little boy, so very eager to impress. "I thought it might please you…"

"You mean the kind you used to please your trollops?" she queried bitterly. The look of hurt on his face finally managed to penetrate her self-pitying exterior. "I'm…I'm sorry, that was…cruel. I don't know why I said it."

"You don't…have to think of it being from me," he responded quietly. "Just pretend it was left anonymously, and judge it on its own merits." He jutted his chin towards the basket.

She gazed at it for a long moment, and then noticed with a start that something was moving inside it. Curiosity got the better of her, and she pulled it open. Staring up at her, with wide, watery eyes, was a small, wolfish puppy. She felt a lump rise in her throat as she picked it up by the scruff of the neck and cradled it against her breast.

"Tyrion, is he…is _she_ …?"

"It's a girl," he confirmed. "A _lady_."

She clutched the puppy tightly and blinked back tears as it started to lick her face. "You heard about Lady then, didn't you?"

"Joffrey had a way of bragging about his cruelties," he confirmed.

"I probably deserved it," she sniffled. "I would not stand up for my sister and her direwolf. I lied about them for Joffrey's sake, because I thought he was so romantic and would take me off on some white horse and make me his queen. I was…horrible."

"No, not horrible," he countered. "Just a child. We all do things in childhood we regret when we grow up. Recognizing that is a part of growing up, really."

"Yes, but…I can't stop thinking of everything I've done, everything I caused, on that occasion and all others. Lady was the very sweetest, gentlest of creatures. It hurt my father so very much to take her life. He never was one to inflict pain on the helpless."

"I…never was either, if it could be avoided." He looked down. "But I'm afraid my nephew had a penchant for it. When he was ten, he drowned a scullery maid's kitten, and nailed the poor dead thing to the door of her quarters." A grim smirk played about his lips. "That, I believe, was the first time I struck the royal face."

She eyed him levelly. "You risked your sister's wrath over a kitten?"

He snorted. "My sister's tender sentiments, or fierce threats, have never swayed me. If such an act were left unpunished, I feared it would set a dangerous precedent," he explained. "It might lead to worse displays of thoughtless brutality when the boy became a man."

"Is it also true you stripped a man of rank and sent him to the wall for killing a baby girl after a battle?"

He sighed. "I have done many things that might be considered dishonorable and callous. Looking back at it now, with you as my… _friend_ …I am starting to regret them. But they were never done for the sake of pleasure, nor with the intent of wounding the weak. I acted only in ways I felt were unavoidable. Otherwise, I did all in my power to prevent such acts, whether on the part of myself or others."

"And to try and patch up those cut to pieces inside?" She looked at him apologetically. "Even when…they are ungrateful?"

"Gratitude is not to be reasonably expected, nor sought after, in such cases," he stated. "But…to bring even the smallest taste of happiness to someone who has known too much of suffering is worth any effort."

"So…the puppy is part of that?"

"Only a part." His eyes twinkled a little. "I…well, _we_ …have a surprise for you. For our new year."

"Does it have anything to do with the food preparatory aromas coming from the kitchen?"

"It…might!"

That evening's meal was the very nicest Sansa could remember since leaving Westeros. Tyrion and Sauriel kept exchanging self-congratulatory glances as the teenager reacted to the honey-glazed chicken, seasoned potatoes, rosemary bread, and lemon cakes set out on the table.

"Where…how…Tyrion?!"

"Just a matter of saving up," he explained with a smirk. "I wanted us to have a special New Year, even if it couldn't be as lavish as it would be elsewhere. I figured I could at least try to purchase a few things you might like. As you know, I do have some skill at planning a broad spectrum of…events. And Sauriel assisted with food preparation. It's been our secret gift for you."

"For me," she whispered, tears prickling in her eyes again.

"Well, we are sort of your family now," he offered with a small smile. "Maybe not the family of choice, but…at least you're not alone." The puppy in her arms started to bark. "And failing to be comforted by _that_ thought, you have her to fall back on."

"I've been a terrible companion this past couple of weeks," she confessed, "but I promise…this coming year, it'll be different. I'll try to be…happy, as much as I am able."

"Sansa, you don't have to force happiness," he assured her. "Just don't shut us out from whatever you might be feeling. We want to be there for you, that's all."

She smiled. "Well, I feel that I do have some genuine cause for happiness tonight," she decided. "I have…more than I deserve in all of you. And this is truly a feast to be remembered."

"And I bought something else." He promptly produced a bottle of wine.

"You didn't tell me about this part," Sauriel emphasized, crossing her arms.

"I'm not going to overdo it," he vowed, lifting his hand dramatically as if taking an oath of allegiance, "just going to have one glass for flavor."

She looked at him dubiously.

"Alright, maybe another for a chaser." He turned to Sansa. "I was hoping you might share it with me. I know you don't have much of a taste for it, but perhaps you might acquire one."

"I'll try it, if you'd like me to."

"Excellent!" He started to pour the glasses. "Sauriel, would you care to indulge?"

"No, if it's all the same," she refused. "There's a certain self-satisfying feeling about being the only sober one in the room."

"Fine, fine, be stubborn," he fluffed her off, handing Sansa her glass and raising his own. "To the new year!" He clinked his glass against her own in a toast and then promptly started to gulp down the contents. She attempted to follow suit, but then started to choke.

"Er…perhaps it would be best… _not_ to follow my lead," he decided. "Just…sip it. In a nice, lady-like way."

She did so, slowly, gingerly, and he waited eagerly for her reaction to the taste.

"It's…not…horrible."

He grinned "I'll make a convert of you yet."

Then the three of them sat down and started to enjoy the meal.

Tyrion snatched at a drum stick and started to devour it ravenously. Then he caught Sansa watching and slowed down. She tilted her head. "May I…have your plate for a moment?"

He looked at her, perplexed, but allowed her to take the plate away and dish the food onto it. Then very daintily, she started to cut his food into bite-sized pieces with her fork and knife. He observed her, mesmerized.

"You look shocked," she clucked.

"I am, I suppose," he admitted. "I've never had a lady…cut my food before."

"Did you think I was going to let you eat like an animal?" She raised an eyebrow up.

He smirked, rather sadly. "I _am_ an animal."

She shook her head. "Never, Tyrion, never while I'm beside you."

"Of course not. Not…not with you here."

The puppy started to beg under Sansa's chair, and she was happy to oblige her with a strip of chicken. "What shall we name her?" she asked Tyrion excitedly.

He chuckled. "You're speaking as if she were our first-born child!" He twitched, realizing the awkwardness of his words. "There I go again, still the dwarf who tells bad jokes."

Sansa pretended to scowl, but her eyes were playful. He crinkled his forehead, feigning haughtiness. "I take that noble title very seriously, m'lady."

"Naturally, my lord," she twitted in return. Then both started giggling spontaneously.

The puppy now started begging at his side of the table. "Oh, look, she likes me! I _am_ shocked now!"

"Why should you be so shocked? You're the one who brought her home," Sansa reminded him.

"Yes, but my relationship with dogs has always been fragile at best. I think it has something to do with eye level contact," he surmised philosophically. "Or maybe it's simply because I am a cat …and a terribly chewed up cat at that."

"You're a very…nice cat, though," she insisted, then chuckled slightly at how odd it sounded.

"I think I shall add that to my title, a momentous decision which calls for a second drink," he decided, lifting yet another glass of wine. "To the title!"

The night continued on quite pleasantly, and by all accounts, and a couple more glasses of wine, Tyrion and Sansa seemed finally to have loosened up enough to enjoy each other's company to the fullest. Sauriel played her usual role of straight-faced stoicism, but in her heart, she felt nothing but joy for the little man and his little sparrow. When the last plate was finished, the two of them settled in for one final half-glass of the wine.

"So how does it feel living the dream?" Tyrion inquired, sipping at it contentedly.

Sansa looked puzzled.

Sauriel raised an eyebrow. "What are you talking about, little man?"

He sighed. "Just bare with me, will you?"

"We're trying," she huffed. "It's a struggle, but we are trying."

"Alright, alright, so," Tyrion inhaled, turning to Sansa, "when you were young, you wanted to live in a fairytale, am I correct?"

She smiled softly. "I suppose I did."

"Well, maybe it's the wine, but I have this new perspective tonight…"

"It's the wine," Sauriel confirmed drably.

He eyed her with mock indignation, and Sansa giggled again.

"So my new perspective is that, actually, we're all playing a part of this larger story, this fairytale of our own." He gestured to his surroundings, making a circle formation with his hand.

Sansa tilted her head, looking more confused than ever.

"Alright, you've succeeded in your mission to completely lose us now," Sauriel exhaled.

"Fine, I'll tell it like a story then," he decided.

"A bedtime story," the old woman filled in. "This should be interesting."

"Of course it will be! I'm an altogether interesting personage," he bragged.

"Anyway…?"

"Anyway," he sighed, turning back to Sansa. "So…once upon a time, there dwelt a…princess, a strikingly beautiful princess, with hair like the tawny fire and eyes like azure ice. And she had a neck long and white like a swan, and a voice as fresh as the very first birdsong in spring."

Sansa blushed. She had never guessed he would be able to tell a story in the manner of the old ballads. It felt funny, hearing his wine-washed, sing-song voice telling it. It was really rather sweet, and made her feel warm and safe inside.

"But due to the wars in her native country, she was forced far away from her home, far off into exile in a foreign land, where she wound up going into hiding with a dwarf and a witch, both of whom weren't much to look at."

"Speak for yourself," Sauriel disclaimed.

"I prefer to be inclusive," he asserted, cheekily. "But it all this works in her favor because it makes her stand out as being more desirable than ever, even disguised as a peasant. And do you know what all this is naturally leading up to?"

Sansa shook her head.

"Oh, come, you've read more fairytales than I have. Naturally, it will lead to some handsome prince showing up to rescue you from us. It's as predictable as the changing of the years."

She turned her eyes down for a moment. "The only one I've had to be rescued from thus far has been a handsome prince, and the one who did the rescuing was a dwarf."

"Well, there was also that butcher," Tyrion reminded her.

"And it was the dwarf who was my rescuer again, with the help of the witch."

"Alright, so…you're part of a unique fairytale, more likely to be remembered because of the original elements. You'll be famous."

"Right," Sauriel sighed. "While you're planning to make her famous, I think you both need to sleep off some of that wine."

"You are a killjoy, Sauriel," he lamented.

"No," she retorted. "Merely the adult in the room. Now off to bed with the both of you!"

As usual, Sansa undressed behind a screen Sauriel had erected for the purpose. Tyrion watched as her shadow dispensed with her peasant dress and donned her thin nightgown, and listened to her humming an old ballad.

"What is that song about?" he inquired.

"A woman who drowns her sister to steal her lover away," she explained, in an incongruently cheerful tone. "When her body is washed up on shore, these minstrels make a harp out of her breast-bone, and the harp plays by itself at the king's high hall."

"That's…rather morbid."

She peeked out from behind the screen with a teasing countenance. "I never thought you would be one to recoil at dark subject matter, my lord."

"Just because I look like a ghoul, doesn't mean that…" He paused for a moment, fearing that all the drinking had made him too sensitive. "I suppose my life has had enough…dark. I'd like to think…happy thoughts, for a little while."

She regarded him with a soft expression for a moment. "You deserve happy thoughts, Tyrion. Lots and lots of them."

He smiled sleepily as Sansa came over and started to settle into bed next to him. She started to undo her braided hair.

"Would you allow me to…do that for you?"

Sansa giggled. She guessed it was the alcohol putting such an idea in his head. But then she was feeling more than a little tingly herself, so she didn't oppose his whim. She felt his hands carefully undoing the strands and his fingers combing through them when they were freed. When the braids were all undone, he kept stroking her hair gently, finding pleasure in its softness. Then he accidentally tugged at a tangle.

"Ouch!" she yelped. "Tyr…"

"Sorry, sorry, my bad," he apologized. "I've got clumsy fingers."

She clicked her tongue, then playful hit in the stomach with her pillow. He laughed and rolled over on his side. "M'lady, I'd never have thought it of you!"

They proceeded to fall into several seconds' worth of an impromptu pillow fight/bed sheet tangle, until Tyrion managed to pin her down and win the round. Both were laughing hard at the ridiculousness of it all, and he rested his forehead against her own. "You're a silly, adorable little thing when drunk."

"I'm not drunk," she protested. "I just…my brother Robb sometimes got me into things like that when I was very little, before I became a proper lady."

"To hell with being a proper lady! We must do snow ball fighting one of these days."

"No, no, that's so unacceptable, that's what Arya would do…"

"But pillow fighting is alright?"

"Well, no…I don't know, I can't think it all out…"

"See, you really _are_ drunk."

"Am not," she countered, stifling a hiccup.

"Are!"

"No, no, no," she denied laughingly, as he pulled her against him and cradled her against his shoulder.

"You need to go to sleep," he sighed, tucking back her loose strands of hair.

"Mmm…" she seemed to agree, drifting off quite fast against him. "Tired…" She murmured a few other things he could not quite make out, then finished, "Night…love you…"

He could not help but feel his chest swell. Yes, she was slipping off into wine-induced slumber, and had just previously been thinking on her late brother. It might have easily gotten garbled in her mind. Yes, that had to be it. She probably didn't know she was saying it at all.

But still…she _had_ said it. Very quietly he responded, "You too." He breathed out hard. "Truly…I do."

Never mind it. She was sound asleep.


	7. Chapter 6: Lost Treasures

**Okay, gang, don't ask me how this wound up being the longest, and fluffiest, chapter to date. It really wasn't supposed to be, but it just started getting bigger and fluffier and I couldn't stop myself from getting it all out! So enjoy it while it lasts…there will be more heart-rending issues to come for our couple, I assure you, but for now, they need a little R &R! Looking forward to your opinions on this one!**

 **Oh, and to make up for the mangled link last time, here again is the web address of the magazine which I edit,** ** _The Fellowship of The King!_** **Please like us on FB!:**

 **.net**

Chapter 6: Lost Treasures

Even the longest winter eventually melts into spring. So it was in Davneros some four months later, when the icicles started to drip and little streams rushed along the streets that had just recently been patched with dirty snow. The first flower bloomed behind Sauriel's shop, and a certain hyper-active puppy aptly named Arya chased down the first songbird preparing to build its next in archway. New beginnings were everywhere.

Tyrion was doing well at his job as an office clerk, even if he still received cat-calls from the other clerks due to his size. It mattered little. He was by far the shrewdest of the lot, and the merchant he was employed by was taking note of it. If there was anything really important to be done, he realized that Tyrion was the best equipped to sort it out. He was keen at the figures, and at business logic, and while he might have had to sacrifice his noble title, being an industrious and educated working man was rather to his taste. And there was a future in it, at that.

Sansa, meanwhile, was also finding her own place working alongside Sauriel in the apothecary shop. She learned about the many uses and properties of plants and how they could be used for both nutrition and medicine. She helped with customers and made visits with Sauriel to care for those too sick to leave their hovels, often without charge. She learned many things, from curing fevers to easing tension to birthing babies. She also started to wear a healer's crystal around her neck. Sauriel told her that it would bring blessing to all those who looked upon it, and that she would always find friends in the most unusual places on its account.

She also started to learn cooking, and while it originally chafed against her high-born identity, she actually began to enjoy experimenting with it. Tyrion would tease her rather mercilessly about her meal-time attempts and her flour drenched apron, and she would respond in kind about the ink smudges on his clothes and hands when he came to the table. It became their favorite mutual joke, and brought them together through the shared experience as a lord and a lady learning to live like hard-working peasants without the pleasantries or pretense of noble titles. But they were living, at long last, a hard life, but a real life. And in spite of their occasional yearnings for past grandeur, neither one wanted to give it away.

One evening in early spring, Tyrion returned home and approached Sansa with a sparkle of mischief in his eyes. "I want to take you on an adventure," he declared.

"I thought you didn't believe in adventures," she countered. "You said there was no such thing as real adventure, just an uncorrelated succession of events…"

"Since when have you taken what I have to say so to heart?" he shot back.

"I believe I once made some type of promise with regards to honoring you, and heeding your words," she reminded him.

"Right, well, that was in a different country," he refuted. "But feel to start now on this side of the border. So…I hereby command that you believe in the plausibility of having adventures." He took her by the hand and pulled her towards the door.

"Tyrion! I have cooking to do…"

He rolled his eyes. "You are really becoming an old maid."

She swatted him with the apron. "Stark women are never old maids."

"And I, among others, can fully appreciate why not," he flirted lightly. "Which is why tall, dark, and handsome strangers will undoubtedly come asking you to leave your cooking and go on adventures."

She raised an eyebrow.

He shrugged. "And…others who prefer to be original and defy that description!"

His self-deprecating humor caused her to giggle. "Alright, my lord and master, I'll do as I am bid…but what am I being bid, exactly?"

"Just…come, and I'll show you!"

Traversing to the far end of the city via back streets took some doing, as Tyrion was still heartily concerned about them being spotted together again. But the end result was worth it. At the end of the last back street, there was a small wooded outcropping, wild with underbrush and generally unkempt. In spite of Sansa's hesitation, Tyrion insisted they were going through it. So they did.

After staggering through about ten minutes worth of brush and tangle, then found themselves in a grove of cherry trees alongside a small, gurgling stream, with a large willow overhanging a large stone slab with what appeared to be a seat cut into it. The woods ended at that point, and beyond it Sansa saw the land drop into a dramatic valley, with the shadow of the distant mountains painting the horizon.

"Tyrion," she murmured. "It's…gorgeous."

"I thought you might find it so," he admitted. "I heard tell of it as a place where people used to come to pray, although it has long been abandoned. It's one of nature's secrets time forgot."

She spun around to take it all in. "The sky is so open here! Look at the clouds," she sighed in ecstasy, lying down in the tall grass alongside the stream. "They're glorious!"

Tyrion watched her resting there for a long moment, her breast rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm with her breath. He felt that same far-away feeling he always got when she seemed to be happy at long last. He wanted to fit into that happiness so much it hurt, but still realized, no matter how hard he tried, that he was woefully out-of-place in her life. He felt like a rock watching a river flow by; like a dead thing, yearning for, but never fully being able to taste the drink of life.

He allowed his imagination to wander, letting his natural cynicism fall by the wayside for just a few seconds, he pretended he was pleasing to look upon and that he had courted and won her of his own accord. He pretended that she really did want him, and that his presence brought her happiness. He pretended they were both very much in love and their marriage was something they had both desired. With all this alternate realities coursing through his mind, he could not help but fanaticize what a wonderful time and what a wonderful place this would be to make love…

Then reality clicked in.

 _Make love? Seriously? He had never "made love" in his life, and did not even know what it meant - not really- and he doubted he ever would…_

Sansa leaned up and smiled at him. "You look like your thinking very hard about something, my lord."

He looked down shyly. "I watch things, think things. A favorite pastime."

"Well, come then, watch the clouds with me!" She tapped on the ground beside her.

"I…I'm allergic to clouds," he protested dryly. In truth, he was uncertain that lying next to her at this particular moment would do much to ease the twisting sensation in his chest.

"Oh, you're no fun!" she moaned dramatically.

He smirked. "I'm afraid it's just a side-effect of getting too bloody old. All those hours at a clerk's desk is just aiding the aging process, getting numbers all scattered in your brain and ink under your fingernails, and breaking your back propped up on a stool…"

"Oh, you're not _that_ old!"

"Well, twice your age, almost," he reminded her. "I could very nearly be your father."

She rolled her eyes and pretended to pout with arms crossed.

He chuckled. "Alright, but if I can't get this bag of twisted bones back up again, you're going to have to lend a hand."

"Agreed," she conceded, taking his hand and pulling him down beside him. He winced a little when his back did hit the ground.

"Did that actually hurt?" she inquired, suddenly beginning to realize something he may have been hesitant to bring up. _He was dwarfed, after all. It might actually…hurt. Hurt more than just normal stiffness in the bones._

"I'm fine," he insisted. "I'm good." He grinned, that odd grin he always made when trying to conceal something. "Oh, look, that's an interesting cloud…looks like a dragon or something…could also be a pony with wings that breathes fire…"

He paused in his sing-song distraction as he felt her hand moving its way along his shoulder in a soothing, circular motion.

"Does that…feel alright?" she queried gently.

"It does," he replied, surprised by her consideration. "Thank you, I…it feels very, very nice."

He tried to remember the other occasions when women had massaged his shoulders when the pain flared in them. They were scattered, alcohol-blurred times in the aftermath of hotter activity, and always after payment was assured. But the strange thing was…it never felt quite so nice when they did it. He supposed it was because he usually had been looking for comfort, and you can't buy comfort. Passion and pleasure, yes, but not real comfort. Perhaps he had felt it a little bit with Shae, but looking back, it was all wisps and shadows, never the real thing. Now he felt…the real thing.

"When we get home, I'm going to make you some special tea Sauriel taught me about," she told him. "It'll…help."

"You're becoming a regular little hedge witch, aren't you?" he twitted.

"It's not sorcery, Tyrion" she insisted. "It's just learning to find…the good, I suppose, hidden in the world in ways we might not expect. It's almost like a hunt for buried treasure. Like the way a terribly bitter plant can be used to heal, or how what was thought to be a useless weed can nourish you. The way the flowers all have stories and symbols, and the way the animals sense things that we cannot. It's about making peace with the world after so much war. It's about finding life after so much death."

"Does it make you feel…happy?" he inquired.

"I helped save a baby's life the other day, with Sauriel," she whispered. "The father came into the shop and told us to come for his wife. It was a difficult pregnancy. If we weren't there, the baby might have been lost, and possibly the mother too. But we were there, and we helped save them. I got to hold that baby in my arms for a little while, the first time it cried, so beautiful and needing. What greater happiness could there be?"

He regarded her softly. "You will make a wonderful healer, and a wonderful mother…with someone, someday."

She blushed. "I don't know about that…"

"But I do," he assured her. "And I'm as obnoxiously clever about predicting these things as you can get."

She smiled and squeezed his hand. He felt a surge of heat, but bore up against it. He thought for a moment back to his own birth, wondering if in a different circumstance, his mother might have been saved as well from the ordeal of her fatal labor. He wished he could have flashed Sansa back to that moment…maybe in that horrible either/or moment, she might have been able to do something that helped save the mother, instead of the child…

His trend of thought was splattered by a sudden sprinkle of raindrops. Both of them sat up abruptly. "Just our luck," he muttered, realizing they were about to get caught in an unexpected downpour. "Even the sun has been taken by surprise." He gestured to the still quite visible golden orb slowly descending in the sky.

"We can wait it out over there!" Sansa gestured to the seat cut out of stone beneath the willow tree. He didn't see a reason to argue with her logic, so they both scrambled to their feet – Sansa pretty much dragging forward Tyrion – made their way to the stone seat. It was a tight fit for both, but they managed rather laughingly to make it work. She was shivering a little from the rain, and didn't hesitate to curl up against him for warmth. He inhaled…deeply. Her hair still carried with it the scent of the lemons she used when she washed it. It made his nose tingle.

They watched as the rain fell softly outside their willow canopy, water washing and wind whipping against the fire of the sun. And all along, her head rested comfortably on his shoulder. It felt as if time itself had ceased to run its course, and that they had melted into the rhythm of eternity, set aside from the storm. Nature was humming all around them, and Sansa began humming softly as well. It was an old tune, and Tyrion recognized its melody.

"My featherbed is deep and soft and there I'll lay you down," he recited quietly. "I'll dress you all in yellow silk, and on your head, a crown."

She smiled, encouraging him to go on.

"And…you shall be my lady love, and I shall be your lord…" He swallowed. Proving he was well-versed in poetry was suddenly becoming painful. "And…I'll always keep you…warm and safe…and guard you with my sword."

"But she wanted to do without all that and be lovers in the woods," she filled it in. "She could not love him amidst all the splendor, but she could love him in their special place, their wild place in nature…" She looked around her thoughtfully. "A place like this."

She started humming again and then sang the last verse of the song:

"And so she smiled, and so she laughed, the maiden of the tree. She spun away and said to him, 'No featherbed for me. I'll wear a gown of golden leaves and bind my hair with grass, and you shall be my forest love, and me your forest lass."

"You…your voice…is like this place, Sansa," Tyrion remarked. "Timeless and true, like the wild flowers, unafraid of the rain." He exhaled. "I must sound so silly when I say things like that to you."

She lifted her head. "Why?"

"Because…of what I am." He tried a sardonic grin, but it pained his mouth. "I'm the imp; I'm supposed to making dirty jokes, not…saying pretty things like that. It feels so out of character."

"Then you don't mean the pretty things you say?" she queried, seeing genuinely concerned by the possibility.

He shook his head, a gurgling chortle rising in his throat. "Sweet girl, it frightens me sometimes how much I mean them."

She looked at him for a moment, then unexpectedly reached out and ran her fingers over the scar on his face. He twitched. She certainly did seem to want to touch him a lot today. _Maybe…she was getting to like it? Maybe…it meant something significant…?_

"Sorry, I just…wanted to know what it felt like."

Tyrion shrugged. "Strange desire, but I really don't mind," he decided, knowing he was silly to have expected anything more meaningful. "Just don't scratch it, please. I got blood on far too many shirts doing that. Had to bite my nails down to stop myself from keeping at it."

"Aww," she cooed. "I'll be very careful."

He smiled, just a little. "So…how does it feel then?"

"They stitched it all uneven," she stated. "I could have done a much better job."

He chuckled. "Of course, with your hand guiding the needle, I'd have been transformed into a patch-work quilt, a true work of art."

She giggled. "You _are_ a work of art, Tyrion."

He rolled his eyes. "Now you're the one who's being silly."

"No really," she insisted. "You're…a masterpiece. All great masterpieces have cracks, and those cracks should never be covered over. No, they should be filled in with gold for the world to see and know the courage of those cracks."

Her companion's face blushing crimson. "Well…well," he sputtered. "It seems that the rain is stopping. Shall we…start for home?"

He started to awkwardly slide off the stone bench, lost his balance, and almost fell. Instantly, Sansa gripped his arm and steadied him. He looked up at her, a gleam of gratitude, and then epiphany, in his eyes.

"I remember what it was we said, what we did…all those years ago, at the feast at Winterfell. It was…on the stairs…"

Her own eyes lit up. "Yes, the stairs…I…helped you, didn't I?"

"I was quite drunk, and trying to get up to my chamber…and then you came out too."

"I was going to bed, because they were having bear-baiting," she recalled. "My father never had bear-baiting at Winterfell, but the guests had demanded it."

Tyrion exhaled. He knew which "guests" had done the demanding. His father was an avid gambler when it came to the blood sports. Tyrion never acquired a taste to watch suffering animals tearing each other to pieces. It reminded him too much of his own torments at the hands of his sadistic family.

"I believe I was exiting the room for a similar reason," he reminisced. "Well, that and being thoroughly intoxicated. Bu then I got to some stairs, trying to find my chamber, and…fell down…and…and you were there, I think, watching somehow."

"Yes, I…I didn't expect you be out there. They told me to stay away from you, and there you were…sprawled out across the stairs…laughing."

"I was laughing?" he queried. "I don't remember that part at all."

"I think…I think you were laughing because it hurt."

He looked perplexed, but then realized she was probably correct. Sometimes forcing laughter, he had found, was sometimes the only way of staving off humiliation or pity. And falling down always hurt and humiliated him.

"So…you came over and…pulled me up again?" he filled in the blanks.

"I think I just watched for a little while, but…but you were struggling."

 _Yes, struggling._ Tyrion could not remember a time when he was not struggling at something. He imagined what she must have thought, watching him flat out on the stairs. He must have looked like a dying beetle, flipped over on its back.

"You could have just…walked away," he mumbled lamely. "I'm sure your nurse and parents would have been displeased with your touching me."

"You're correct about my nurse and my mother," she agreed. "But my father…would have understood."

He nodded solemnly. Ned Stark had been the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms, and he met a cruel fate because of that honor. But here he was, living on through his daughter, who had helped Tyrion so long ago knowing her father would approve.

"I remember when you got me up. We were the same height back then, because I could look you straight in the eyes." He smirked. "You looked more than a little afraid, but still said something sweet. I forget exactly…"

"I said…I said I climbed those stairs all the time," she recalled. "That you didn't have to do it all alone. That…I could…help you."

A lump rose in his throat. "I remember now. Then…then I…did this…" He reached out and touched her face. "And then your nurse came up, and saw it, and pulled you away."

Sansa turned her eyes down. "She was just trying to protect me from something she did not understand."

"She understood," he exhaled. "My touch…was too often associated with…other things. I don't blame her for pulling you away." He closed his eyes. "But…but I only meant…to say…thank you."

She smiled a little. "You weren't very heavy, as I recall." She paused for a moment, then added, "But all the same, when you touched me, I…I knew what you meant."

He grew misty-eyed, remembering how every step up those stairs alone had brought with it a strange ache at the little girl's absence. "It's strange how I did not remember this, did not remember who you were, when I broke into the throne room to get you away from Joffrey. I was returning a favor without even knowing it."

"Yes, I suppose you were," she agreed.

"But then you switched it up again, on the coast in Westeros." He turned his eyes to the ground, felt his knees shaking slightly. "I still don't quite understand…why you did what you did, that night. So few have dared stand in the way of a Lannister lion and his prey, much less in order to save that lion."

"I thought…you needed a friend, very, very much," she explained simply. "I suppose you always had…but I just kept pushing you away, and punishing you for things you could not control. Before the wedding, I said that I doubted very much that you could understand what I was feeling. But nevertheless, you were still trying to comfort me, and instead of rebuking your efforts, I probably should have been trying to comfort you too. I knew you didn't want the marriage, but you did want to make the best of it, in spite of everything. You needed, at the very least, some sign of friendship, or assurance that I would put my heart into it."

"One cannot put their heart into something where the heart has no place," he exhaled. "I was a fool to think you ever could, after all my family had done to you and yours."

"But _your_ heart was in it," she stated. "On our wedding night…I still can't believe you did not take what was yours by right. You…owned me, all of me. You were drunk, there was craving in your eyes. You said salacious things, ordered me to undress. And then…and then…you stopped it all, and slept on the hard chaise instead of your own bed. You risked your father shaming your manhood or maybe even having your head for your disobedience. But you would not force your touch upon me."

"I swore never to hurt you," he murmured. "And…it's true I was drunk, and that I wanted you, but…you looked so scared, taking off your clothes. I could not…watch it. Paying off prostitutes is one thing, but I could not…I _would_ not bed a frightened child…"

"But you said you didn't care about my age," she countered, "that you wanted me anyway. And no one would have stopped you from taking me; in fact you would have been praised. And I certainly had no way of stopping you…"

Her words sent Tyrion into a flash-back of that night, and he remembered the slow, pained way in which she had started to remove her dress. With her one bare, hunched shoulder exposed, she looked so helpless and alone. She looked like she was preparing to be flogged all over again…only there was no one to rescue her this time. Tyrion had thought he would enjoy gazing on her nakedness, but instead he had felt like the lowest scum of the earth. Someone had to save this child from his own ravenous hunger for her…and paradoxically, he was the only one able to do it. So he did it.

" _I_ stopped me," he stressed. "A pervert I may be, but not…to that level. I…I am not only a creature of senseless desire, no matter what they all thought, all said. I stopped me…and that one victory I will carry inside me, even to the gates of the Seven Hells."

She squinted. "You have…travel plans?"

Tyrion burst out laughing in a strangely hollow manner. "Assuredly, my lady, it would be like a homecoming for me. I'm the demon monkey. I would finally be in a location that truly suited by tastes and where I fit into the general atmosphere with ease."

"But I'd want to be with you," she blurted. "If we died…I'd want to be with you."

He gazed at her in astonishment, then recollected himself. "No, no, the gods would never allow that. You'd be put in some beautiful place, like this, and you'd never know ugliness or cruelty again. You'd have your old family all together again, and whatever new family you might make in the future, your husband and children. I'm just the demon monkey…"

"You said that already," she chided him, "and it means nothing to me. They are just words, flung at you by cruel tongues, not based in what you are."

"Then what am I?" he queried, still in a somewhat teasing fashion.

"Much, much more than you've ever let people think, or people have ever let themselves believe. You know that, and I know that, and Sauriel knows that, and the Seven know that. And that's worth just about everything."

He snorted. "You've with spending too much time with that crone, I think."

Sansa was undeterred. "Perhaps I have, but she is a wise woman. I have never known anyone quite like her, Tyrion, but she's taught me how to…grow up. And I'll never forget how I grew up here." She laid her hand on his shoulder lightly. "In the Seven Hells, you'd have to forget me, forget all of this, let it be burned off and carried away like the wind carries the ashes."

He remained quiet for a moment. "That would never happen," he said at last. Damn it, he was not at all sure if he believed in any life beyond the one he was living, but he knew that this memory of daylight would be stronger than all the power of eternal night.

"They would make you take the bitter drink that washes away all goodness…"

"It might take every other good thing away, but not the memory of this time. Every drink that I would take, I would raise the glass to you."

She eyed him deeply. "If you could hold onto this one memory, then the guardians of the gates would find no place for you in the underworld."

"So I would be betwixt and between? A wanderer for the rest of eternity?" he proposed.

"Being a wanderer is not so very terrible," she decided. "Not when you have someone to wander with. You can't be lonely if you have someone to be alone with."

He gazed at her deeply. "I think…I have had some difficulty in that department."

She sighed. "Look at us, all the way out here. If we two could find a home in Davneros, I'm sure we will find a home in the Halls of the Dead someday."

"Let's not think on that now," he exhaled. "We're alive now, and…I want us to think about…living, and being together…for a while…here…"

"Oh, look! A rainbow!"

She stood up abruptly and put her hand over her eyes, observing the glorious after-effect of the sun-shower, wending its way down into the distant mountain range. "It's like a necklace from the gods, all different colors cast by the same light that made us all."

Suddenly inspired, she pulled off her healer's crystal and hung it on the nearby cherry tree. The sun reflected on the crystal and the rain dripping from the pale pink blossoms, and prisms spread everywhere. They reflected on Sansa in hues of fuchsia and azure and violet and gold.

"You look like a princess," he complimented her, "out of a fairytale, full of magic."

She smoothed out her skirt wistfully, letting the prisms dance along her slender fingers. "My father taught me to leave precious things behind in sacred trees. He worshipped the old gods of the North, and said that when he died, wanted to be remembered as a true Northerner." She pointed to the crystal. "This is for him. For all of them, living and dead. Light is the fastest messenger, and the colors of the light will penetrate any separation."

Observing her act of devotion to her family, Tyrion again felt woefully out-of-place. Then slowly he drew a coin from out of his coat. "My last Westeros coin, worth little except for the memories. But going from a lord down to a clerk, one can hardly blame me for the guilty pleasure of carrying it for security." He placed it in her hand. "Would you place it up on that branch please? I'd do it myself, but stilts are hard to come by these days."

"Are…you sure, Tyrion?"

"About stilts?"

She clicked her tongue. "You know what I mean. This coin…means something to you."

"That's the idea, is it not? Providing such a gesture from a Lannister would not be seen as a sacrilege, I would like to do it…for all of them."

"For us too."

He raised an eyebrow.

"It's for every lost treasure that we find, and every strain of light tying one to another." She exhaled, and tucked the coin into the tree branch just below the one from which her crystal dangled. "For them, for us. It's all the same. We're all together in this now."

As if to confirm this, the light piercing through the crystal struck the coin, turning it into a glowing golden orb, not so very different from the sun as it became submerged in the fiery orange sky that faded into a joyous pink and a melancholy purple and a deep, breathless blue.


	8. Chapter 7: A Respectable Courtship

**Okay, group! So this chapter is kind of a mix of fluff and angst. After the past two fluffier chapters, I needed something to help us all segue from one mood to the other. But if you guys are getting sick of the fluff, let me forewarn you: the next three chapters after this are going to be DARK. So…enjoy the niceties while they last…**

 **P.S. A special thanks to my friend and encourager from France, Sanrion4Ever, who left me a beautiful comment I was unable to respond to directly, as she does not have an official account on here. Also thanks to the loyal CLH who is a constant source of support and inspiration, who I am also unable to thank directly due to her not having an account. And to all other commenters, with or without accounts…you guys are really the engine behind this enterprise, and I thank you immensely!**

Chapter 7: A Respectable Courtship

Sansa and Tyrion went on more than a few adventures into the woods that spring, sometimes on their own, and sometimes with Arya the puppy, who would bark at every bird and squirrel, and fetch every stick either of them threw. They could busy themselves with nothing in particular, and never fear the leering eyes of those who might find their companionship a source of mockery. They could be themselves…or at least start to discover who they truly were.

They ate the ripened cherries from the trees together, talked about anything and everything, sharing joys and sorrows, silliness and solemnity. And Tyrion began to feel that this had been the one thing missing his entire life, the missing puzzle piece in a guessing game he had played far too long. Cruel circumstances may have thrown them together, but now they naturally seemed to belong together, as if it had always been part of their destiny. There was camaraderie and comfort in that.

He would regale her with outlandish stories, make her laugh with his wry sense of humor, and cause her to blush when his remarks became a little too crass for her virgin ears. He would mumble self-conscious apologies, and she would smile at him teasingly, knowing him well enough to appreciate his rough-hewn realness. She would reflect on her childhood, the sweetness and sadness of it all, and of everything she was learning about bark and flower and root and all good things coming forth from the earth.

Sometimes they lay together to watch the watch the clouds drift across the sun, or the stars pierce through the pastel colors of the dusk, and he told her the names for the constellations he had learned from his books. Sometimes they said nothing at all, but listen to the wind rustle through the willow and the flow of the stream. Sometimes, when he would drift off to sleep beside her, she would cushion her head against his chest. The nearness made her feel warm, and reminded her she was not all alone in the world after all.

The gentle beauty of spring burst into the wild warmth of summer. Tyrion's working situation did improve, as his own diligence earned him the merchant's promotion to overseer of the other clerks. That he was devilishly dogged and fiercely intelligent no one could deny, and now his co-workers who had formerly mocked him had to take orders from him, however much it went against the grain. And Tyrion was admittedly relishing every second of it.

After a life rooted in court intrigue and political drama, this simple, earthy existence should have felt pointless and dull. Indeed, Tyrion was originally certain that he would rather be executed than enduring normality for too long a stretch. But he shocked himself with the reality that the great and the grand contained far less meaning than his days and nights that rolled by without momentous occasion, like the stream in his special place.

As summer ebbed out apace, they still had not been discovered, their schedule still continued uninterrupted, and Sansa, now heading towards her 15th name day, was eagerly continuing her training as a healer. It gave her a sense of purpose and peace, and she was doing considerably better with regards to her nightmares and flash-backs that used to shake her to the core. That having been said, the storm had not passed entirely. She was only human, after all, and could not forget the horrors she had witnessed.

One night she awoke again with a start, the images of her dead family members assaulting her memory. As usual, Tyrion awoke as well.

"Are you alright?" he queried.

"Yes…alright…you can go back to sleep."

Sansa lay quietly for a long time, determined not to emotionally tax him anymore, as she had done so many times in the past when confronted with nightmares. No, no, she would lie quietly and let her breathing adjust, and try to think happy thoughts, and let him go back to sleep. She remained that way for what felt like forever, wanting to melt away before her resolve melted into tears.

Then she felt his hand twine into her own. "Sansa," he whispered.

She forced a jerking nod.

"Would you…" he started, then thought again. "May I…hug you?"

"H…h…hug me?" she stammered.

"Yes," he confirmed softly.

She honestly didn't know if she wanted him to or not at that moment, but rejecting his offer seemed cold, so she let him pull her against him, and squeeze her tight, as if to let the pain she felt pass into his own body. Something about being held so very close reminded her of the way her father used to hold her when she was a little. Her resolve finally broke, and she sobbed into Tyrion's night shirt.

"I'm…I'm sorry…" she whimpered. "I didn't want to…to cry…"

"Oh," he exhaled. "Don't ever apologize for tears. Just…let it out when it hurts. Too many things have been buried too deep inside the both of us for too long. No sense in hiding them from each other. We…we need to start letting them out, a little at a time…"

"It's just that…I _still_ miss them."

"Of course you do. They loved you, and you loved them. I don't know exactly what that's like, never having had a family…like that. Well, aside from my brother Jaime, to some extent, but Cersei was always the queen of his affections, and she despised me, so…" He exhaled, realizing his topic of conversation was drifting. "What I mean to say is that if I had known the love of a family like yours, and they were taken away from me, I don't believe I would ever stop…missing them." He touched her hair softly. "Even if I had…one person close to _family_ like that, and I lost them, I would…it would…hurt…always."

Sansa pressed her face against his chest and felt his heart thumping a little faster. "I just thought of something," she mused. "If our families hadn't been warring, you would have become…my father's son, in a way."

Her words struck him a way she had not intended, and he pulled away from her abruptly. "Your father had fine, strong, honorable sons that honored his blood. He did not deserve a mark of shame. And at any rate, he would have chopped me into little pieces before I could ever sully his precious, virginal daughter with my touch."

"Tyrion," she choked, a little startled by the intensity of his retort.

"Could you imagine if I ever came courting you? The littlest viper in the pit, all spit and polish and vile jokes and a torn up face…"

"Tyrion!"

"And a mouth that made you sick, Sansa, when it touched your own….that shared spit with too many other mouths, and gulped down too much wine…grotesque, like the Lannister lust that makes men beasts…"

"You are no beast!"

"Your mother…knew otherwise, and your father would never have condemned his daughter to lie with an animal. Whether frightening or farcical, none can make up their mind. That is why I am both demon and monkey…"

"Stop it, stop! I will not have you constantly talking of yourself this way. You are my friend…my very… _best f_ riend."

Before he could respond, she impulsively pressed her lips against his own. He pulled away, shocked and sputtering. "M'lady…don't…"

"Why not?"

"Because…because it disgusts you," he finished. "Even at the wedding, it…hurt you to kiss me. You had to…spit up in the napkin afterwards."

Sansa felt a chill race up her spine. One of the courtiers must have seen it and used it to humiliate him, for Sansa had been careful to do it out of his sight.

"It wasn't…it wasn't the kiss," she tried to explain. "It was just…oh, everything…the tension, the nerves…that's what made me spit up in the napkin."

"But you…you still…pulled away."

She knew exactly what he meant, and couldn't deny it. When they first kissed, in front of the crowd of noble onlookers, she had hesitated, then pulled back in almost automatic distaste. For a brief moment afterwards, she had seen the look of hurt in his mismatched eyes, and the cruel smirk on his sister's face, and regretted her reaction. But what was done had already been done. Looking back, she wondered if that had been one of reasons he had drank more heavily than was wise that night…for if she had shown such revulsion over a kiss, what would consummation hold in store?

"I didn't know you then," she stated. "But I do now, and I…" She could not find what she wanted to say, so once again she let her lips find his, this time for a longer span of moments. He did not jerk away this time, but accepted it tremulously. It was not a passionate kiss, but still tender and meaningful. His lips were soft, and gentle, and not disgusting at all to her. He did not try to take advantage of the moment, take her beyond where she was ready to go. For the first time since their marriage, she thought that perhaps, someday, she might truly be able to love him as a wife would, as a lover would.

Tyrion sensed it too. _Not now…but maybe…someday…maybe…someday…_

Breaking free from the kiss, she settled back against his chest. It was pounding, faster and faster yet. But there was a swelling joy in the movement now, not a rattled sorrow.

"They're opening the harvest fair tomorrow evening at the city limits," he informed her quietly. "There will be jousting and all sorts of sport. We could…go there…?"

Sansa smiled a little. This was the first time Tyrion had ever suggested they go somewhere in public together. It was a risk, both of them knew it. But it was also an acknowledgement of some new flower budding between them. Almost like… _courting_. It was a risk worth taking.

"I would be honored to attend the fair with you, my lord," she responded.

"And if worse comes to worse, and we're spotted, the good news is I'm fairly easy to hide, in a pickle barrel or under a horse blanket or something," he jested.

"Always ones for pointing out the silver linings," she remarked, tongue in cheek, and they both chuckled as they drifted back to sleep.

Tyrion and Sansa went over to the fair early to watch as the tents were being pitched, the targets assembled, and the jousting walls erected. This was the first time he had taken her on any outing that even resembled what he might imagine courting to be life, and he desperately wanted her to enjoy herself.

"I used to be fascinated by these things when I was young," he prattled. "Somehow watching them set up the fair and take it down interested me more than the actual proceedings."

"Don't tell me you wanted to run off to the circus?"

He rolled his eyes. "Freak show openings might have proved tantalizing at times, especially during some of my father's more epic rants, but I'm afraid acrobatics just wasn't my specialty."

"I didn't mean _that_ , I meant…I suppose…management operations or something!"

He chuckled. "Well, that might have at least done _something_ to satiate my in-bred power-lust. But right now, I'm more interested in satiating hunger. Let's go get something."

Conveniently, there was a stall with baskets of food already packed. As they sat on a straw pile on the outskirts of the grounds, eating their meal of bread, cheese, sausage, and donuts, Sansa began to muse deeply, with her eyebrows knit.

"And what is it that is keeping my consort of the evening so deep in thought?"

"Last night, I just realized, you…have a hairy chest."

Tyrion nearly choked on his food at this declaration from his sheltered lady. "Why, m'lady, I'm scandalized!" he exclaimed, feigning shocked, and then letting a teasing smile take over his mouth.

"Well…you do," she maintained, reddening at his sarcasm.

"And you are…bonnie and buxom, as they say," he responded, gesticulating with his hands in front of his chest.

She huffed, blushing a deeper shade of pink. "That's not very nice, you know."

"Yes, it is!" he insisted. "It's _very_ nice…it's a compliment!"

She continued to pout.

He sighed. "Would you prefer to be called pancake flat?"

She thought about it for a second, then resolutely shook her head.

He burst into a giggling fit.

"Now you're laughing at me," she sulked.

"Only because…because you're adorable, Sansa!" His expression went from teasing to sensitive. "You…you really are. If I'm a demon, you're an angel. You're a joy to keep company with." He smirked. "And if I have a hairy chest, it must be the monkey part of me."

"No, its…it's the _man_ part of you. It's just…sometimes I forget when I'm sleeping next to you, that you're…"

"A potentially virulent male?'

She nodded slowly.

"Does it scare you?"

"I kissed you, didn't I?"

He made a half grin. "Yes…you did."

She looked down. "I know you wouldn't hurt me."

"That's true. And as I once said, in the dark, I can be the Knight of Flowers."

"I didn't want to kiss the Knight of Flowers, whoever he might be," she retorted. "I wanted to kiss _Tyrion_."

"Well…well…like the bread?" He gestured to the half eaten piece in her hand.

"Very good bread," she confirmed.

"And the cheese?"

"Very good cheese."

"And the…?"

"Tyrion!" she burst out. "It's all…very good."

He shrugged, and reclined a little further back on the straw. "I love the scent of hay," he commented randomly.

"I love it when the moon comes out at the same time as the sun at dusk," she tossed back, turning it into a little game.

"I love old books…the way the pages crackle when you turn them."

"I love the scent of tea made with strawberry leaves."

"I love flames that burn purple, late at night."

"I love white roses, fringed with scarlet."

Tyrion sat up and smiled as she continued, "And at Winterfell, in the spring, there were these beautiful butterflies, a cross between blue and violet, and they would land on them all the time."

"I love how you let me be so very random with you," he finished. "I love it when you…play

with me."

"I'd wager few people ever thought you knew how."

"Depends what type of 'play' you mean," he jabbed. "I could tell you about some varied definitions…"

"No, that's alright, but thank you all the same. If I change my mind, I'll be sure to inquire."

"Any time."

 _This partial flirting could become a habit…_

"Oh, they've set up the fabric stand now. Want to go look?"

She nodded enthusiastically, brushed the crumbs from her dress, and headed over to the stall.

The material displayed was all of the highest quality, and therefore meant for the nobility. It far surpassed the pay level of even the chief among clerks. But she seemed to extract enjoyment from feasting her eyes on it nonetheless.

Tyrion watched her as she held up a bolt of silky azure material up against her body, gazing in small mirror hanging from the tent for that purpose. For a moment, he desperately wished to be a Lannister in good standing again so that he could afford to purchase any of the pretty things that might set her heart a-flutter. He knew she would look gorgeous in that shade. It brought out her bright, winter blue eyes. But as usual, he decided to disguise his own feelings of lack with humor.

"Careful now," he twitted. "If you try to make off with that, they'll be demanding more than a hand, and there's simply not enough of me to satisfy the need."

She chuckled at his own self-deprecation. "Oh, you silly little man."

He clicked his tongue. "That witch is clearly having a bad influence on you."

She ran her hand over a bolt of burgundy velvet. "If we had the money, I'd first buy some material to sew you new clothes, at any rate. You used to dress so handsomely, I remember."

"Oh, yes, that was me," he clucked. "Always dressed to kill." He grew serious again. "But I'd kill myself before letting you dress me better than you dress yourself."

She swished the silk fabric once more. "Admittedly, this might just make it into my dreams at night…"

"Then you should have it," came a deep voice from behind them. Sansa spun around. Sitting astride an ornately designed saddle strapped onto a snow-white mount was a young man who, judging from his clothes, came from a prestigious background. He was tall and strapping, with a handsome, chiseled face, and dark eyes. A crimson cape swirled around him, and he wore an ostentatious feathered hat.

Sansa looked down shyly and curtsied. "My lord."

"I am Torquil, a merchant prince of this city, and I would consider it an honor if you would allow me to purchase this material for you."

She hesitated, trying to look for Tyrion who seemingly had vanished. "I...I would not wish to inconvenience my lord…"

"Nonsense," he assured, pulling out a pouch of coinage and tossing it to her. "From your accent, I can tell that you are a stranger in these parts, and it is my obligation to show proper welcome to all new-comers…" He paused, and then added, "Especially ones that are so pleasing to the eye."

Sansa reddened, both from his recognition of her Westeros accent and her appearance.

 _What to do? He could be dangerous! What to do?_

"My lord…does me honor," she exhaled nervously.

"Would you do me a favor in return?" he queried, leaning forward across his saddle.

"Naturally, it depends upon the favor," she answered, shocking herself with her own forthrightness. Spending so much time batting back Tyrion's frankness was clearly having its effects.

Torquil let out a hearty laugh. "A beauty with spirit! So much the better! But my request is a simple one."

Sansa tilted her head, waiting for the catch.

"When I compete in the jousts over the course of the fair, may I wear your sash?" He gestured to the simple girding about her waist.

Again, she stalled. She was, technically, married, after all. No matter how it happened, or what Tyrion had said about it being null and void in this country, surely this would be…inappropriate? But of course, no one was supposed to be aware of her background. So…perhaps doing as he asked would prevent suspicion? And he did seem rather generous, and hospitable, and…and she rapidly regretted the other thoughts that assaulted her mind while gazing at his muscular arms.

 _Tyrion…where are you?_

Slowly, she unbound the sash. "If it is to your pleasure, my lord," she responded in a measured tone, reaching up and handing it to him on his horse. He quickly clutched her hand in his own, covered in a fine glove and jeweled ring, and kissed it.

"I know I will triumph over all adversaries this harvest," he predicted. "Will you join the other ladies to watch their champions?"

"I…I am not sure if I can stay, my lord."

"Do try. Your presence alone would strengthen my sword arm." With that, he rode off towards the tournament grounds.

When Tyrion stepped forward from out of the tent shadows at last, he was tempted to make a joke comparing the merchant's foppish appearance to his own rugged "beauty". But then he saw the way Sansa had to wrench her gaze away from him as he rode away. A lump rose in his throat.

 _Ah, he understood now. That kiss…last night…she was starting to feel the flowering of her womanhood, and was running on instinct. It was all muddled up in the poor girl's mind. She didn't know what she wanted._

As soon as she knew he had spotted her glance, her cheeks flamed with shame. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't want to give him my sash, I just…"

"My little dove," he addressed her, affection overcoming a twinge of hurt, "as I've told you many times before, I do not… _own_ you. You can give your sash to whatever form of manhood pleases you."

"That's not it, that's not it at all…"

"You're just flowering, Sansa, newly bled…" Seeing her flush a deeper red, he regretted putting it quite so bluntly. "What I mean is…you're just becoming a woman, and learning that the attentions of a man can be pleasurable. You're encounter with my nephew was a disaster, but that doesn't mean they all have to be. There's no crime in realizing that."

"But…but you're…we're…"

"I'm…older than you, and know about these things." He jutted his chin towards the dais. "You should join them, for the fun of it."

"But…but that's for maidens, Tyrion."

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you not a maiden? If not, then I, for once, am not to blame."

She shook her head at his improper jest. "But I am…spoken for, am I not?" There was a twist of confusion, and possibly just a little pain, in her voice.

"Oh, it's just a game," he assured.

She glanced over her shoulder at the bevy of the cities high born ladies taking their seats on the dais. "They're all from the nobility."

"And…you are…?"

"But no one is supposed to know that!"

That much was true. It was something of a risk. But it also could be an opportunity, a chance for a new life. Tyrion new better than to call it just a game. This was the way the wealthy went in search of wives.

"Trust me, dear, it will be fine!"

She looked at her clothes. "I'm not even dressed right for something like this! And my hair is a mess, and there's straw in it…"

"Sansa, you look…glorious."

His choice of words gave them both pause, as the last time he had called her "glorious" was on their wedding day.

"Where…where will you go?" she queried.

"I'll be around, but out of sight. Not that hard for me to accomplish, natural endowments considered."

"Are you…sure about this?"

"Absolutely positively and without question or doubt." He grinned broadly. "Now _go_ before I take a switch to you."

So Tyrion watched her from a distance for the rest of the evening, taking her seat on the dais, the fairest of the fair. He watched the archery, and fencing, and jousting. And his eyes never left Torquil, now decked out in his finest armor, with Sansa's scarf wrapped around his arm as he speared the prizes dangling from the poles, and knocked the other knights from their mounts to the applause of the crowd. He saw Sansa continue to blush awkwardly, but knew her well enough to know she was taking pleasure in the experience.

She might believe it was just a game; or maybe in her heart of hearts she suspected there was more to it. But he of all people knew that games were never something to take lightly. Even games of make-believe could have very real repercussions.

He had taken her here to the fair, allowing himself to pretend he was courting her, a fine lady with him as a gallant knight. Or maybe nothing quite so grand. Maybe he had simply dared to hope they might go out to celebrate the harvest like any peasant lovers might do. But now he felt a pain stab through his gut. _It was over…the late summer day-dream…all over…snuffed out as swiftly as the season when autumn winds blow…_

Now she had the chance to be courted by a _true_ man for her beauty…a fully grown, wholly-formed, red-blooded man. And she could have a _respectable_ courtship, not one marred by poverty and shame. Of course she might have gotten used to being around a comical and well-intentioned dwarf when there were no other options, but now…other options were presenting themselves. He always suspected they might. She would leave him, leave forever, without a look back. And Tyrion would never raise a hand to stop it.

No…he would even help it along, if he could. The sooner he was made to break with her, the better. Delaying it would only hurt all the worse. And it had to come, he knew, it had to…it always did. He was a fool to have even let himself fantasize otherwise.

But still he wondered if he would ever be able to gaze upon clouds or stars or butterfly wings or scattered straw again without being tortured by them, and torn apart by them, until there was no Tyrion left.


	9. Chapter 8: A Feast for Crows

**Okay, so just a warning…this chapter is rather…painful! Like, almost everybody cries in it, and I was crying writing it! So…if you've gotten yourself emotionally invested by now…a box of tissues might be advised! *sniff* We're gonna get through this, guys, there is light at the end of the tunnel…but after writing it, I feel like I need a virtual group hug!**

 **Anyway…enjoy, I guess, lol!**

Chapter 8: A Feast for Crows

Two weeks had flown by since Sansa had given her scarf to Lord Torquil at the opening night of the Harvest Fair. Two weeks of the festivals and games, bread and circuses, tournaments and oaths pledged had passed, and still her champion battled through the rounds with her favor tied about his arm and with her watching from the dais. And he was winning all the time, besting all other knights who went up against him with drama and panache.

 _He is still young_ , Tyrion thought. _He has not seen life blood drawn in war, nor grown sick at the way fire burns flesh. Battles are still a game to him, just as love is just a game to him._

It was the custom of the land that courtships should be brought to fruition and betrothals initiated at summer's end. As the local saying went, when the harvest came in for the feast, the lovers came out for the ribbon binding. A man grown too old without a woman to call his own might well become a social outcast according to the traditions of Davneros.

This was a certain Lord Torquil's plight, Tyrion supposed. And it seemed to be his intent to use Sansa to remedy it. After all, he had from good authority that success on the tournament field wearing a lady's scarf was taken as something of a given that a match had been made. Sansa of course was unaware of this, and Tyrion had not told her any more about what he had learned.

He wanted her to have a good time, and Torquil made a point of spending as much time with her on the fairgrounds as he could before and after the competitions. He wanted her to get to know this knight better on her own, without social conventions confusing her worse than she already was. Sansa had assured that she would not reveal anything about her past, except that she was an exile from the wars in Westeros, which would be a fitting explanation for her accent. There were enough of them to make the story plausible and yet not give away too much.

But Tyrion still wondered why such a good-looking, seemingly obliging, if rather shallow, lord was so desperate as to take an impoverished exile over one of the high-born ladies who would certainly be flattered by his attentions…unless he had something to hide. Or unless perhaps it really was what the poets called "love at first sight", although Tyrion seriously doubted such a thing even existed in any meaningful way. But he could believe in lust at first sight…the question was, did that sort of thing ever lead to a stable and happy marriage between a noble and, at least what Torquil thought to be, a commoner?

Not in Westeros, to be sure. But this was a different country with different customs. Perhaps fairytale endings like that played out in real life here?

He wasn't sure, but whether or not Sansa was aware of all the details, she did seem rather…happy. Not to say that she hadn't seen her happy with him; perhaps it was just another shade of happiness, just like her cheeks had taken on a rosier shade. She had always had a weakness for attention, and now she was getting that attention. Like a fleeting chapter in an illuminated book of romances, it almost a bit too good to be true. Beneath the exterior signs of enjoyment, he sensed that Sansa felt the same.

She continued to ask Tyrion daily if he'd rather she'd stopped attending the tournaments, if he thought it was putting them too much at risk or he was simply uncomfortable with it, and each day he assured her it was just a game and no harm would come from it. Evidently whatever feelings she may have had towards Torquil did not yet outweigh her concern for his feelings. They were friend, after all… _best_ friends.

And yet he questioned if girls really cared so very much about depth at the end of the day. Maybe their happiness was more based in the senses, and a basically decent atmosphere to live their lives. He…didn't know. But he had done at least some research on Torquil, and it did not seem that he had done anything too terrible in his past. As a merchant prince of the city, he was well-situated in a beautiful manor at the heart of the city. By all accounts, the circumstances seemed fair enough. And for Sansa, it could spell out the beginning of a whole new life…if she were willing to leave Tyrion, that is. Her streak of northern loyalty concerned him most of all.

The day of the last tournament came, and Sansa met with Tyrion as usual in the woods to discuss what had transpired. But this time she was noticeably distraught.

"You didn't tell me. You knew, you had to know…but you didn't tell me."

"Sansa…"

"You knew!" Her tone was angry now. "He thinks…he thinks I'm _his_ now…and you let him think that, and let me…lead him on!"

"It's not a matter of leading anyone on," he retorted. "I've researched his background, and I see him as a suitable match."

"Suitable match?" she repeated in disbelief. "So I have no voice in this at all? Am I your hostage to bandy about as you wish?"

"You have no father to settle these things, so the duty must fall to me."

"You…you want to get rid of me," she realized, the sting of rejection in her voice. "Why?"

He paused for a moment, knowing what had to be done, and yet feeling crushed at the thought of it. _He would have to…make it hurt._

"Perhaps I have grown sick and tired of playing the same games over and over with you, Sansa, as if you were a little child," he shot back, although the words wobbled with the pain of enunciating them. "Perhaps I have better things to do with my time then act as nursemaid for a backward northern farm girl I should have forced to be a woman long ago!"

His uncharacteristically harsh reaction stunned her at first, then wounded her. _It was working._

"I thought you…enjoyed my company."

"Oh, your company has been _so_ stimulating," he derided her coldly. "Like your _passionate_ kissing. Truly, what could be more stimulating than _that_?"

"I…I _meant_ that kiss…"

"Yes, you meant to make the little dwarf feel better! Well…I'm afraid his tastes are rather more cultivated than your efforts could satisfy. Are you shocked, my naïve hostage?"

"Tyrion…please…don't…"

"You've a body worth lusting after, but no sense to make use of it. Too busy in your fairytale world, talking to stars and chasing rainbows, instead of learning how to pleasure men like me and assure our attentions will be maintained. You think I just wanted your _company_ all this time? Face it, Sansa; I was willing to be patient for the prize, but I want your blood on the sheets, no more, no less!"

She let out a little gasp, just as she had when his knife had grazed her arm on the coast of Westeros. _Was everything they had shared a mere mockery? Had he really been stringing her along like an animal on a leash the whole time? No, no, please…_

"Don't play the role of shocked maiden with me," he growled. "It disgusts me. Go on, get out of my sight, go off with your handsome knight, and learn to play house with him! Get out before I decide to use you as you should have been used long ago!"

Through bitter tears, Sansa flung his Westeros coin out of their tree and snatched down her healer's crystal.

"My mother was right," she choked, swallowing back a surge of hurt and shame. "You _are_ an animal!"

Tyrion's watched mutely she stormed away back through the woods. Then his eyes became fixated on the coin glinting in the dirt. For long, painful, frozen moments he stared at it, and the dead face of Robert Baratheon glared back at him.

 _Was the murdered king's ghost wreaking punishment on all Lannisters through fate? That in exchange for the taking of his life, they should never know more than a tantalizing taste of love?_

He wondered if he should pick up the piece or leave it where it fell, lest he desecrate it with his touch, besmirch all that had been and might have been in this place, this beautiful place that had turned into his ugliest hell.

 _But he had done the right thing, had he not? Had he not?! One vaguely decent thing he could be buried with, that could linger on after his small body became the meal of worms? Oh, Seven, grant a sign!_

The decision was made for him, albeit in a different way than expected. From out of nowhere, a raven swooped down in from of him on the ground, eyed him ominously for a long moment, and then snapped up the coin in its beak and flew away.

She shuddered as he noticed the black feather lying in its place. Death had come to steal away his gold. He smirked, his old cynicism twisting through his bones.

 _Thus marks the end of all good things_ , he thought to himself. _A feast for crows, like our hearts' flesh will be…average men might face worms, but Lannisters…they deserve…crows…_

He heard the distant cawing, felt it claw through him like the sharpest of talons, and stifled a gasp. His throat suddenly felt as dry as a dust-choked road.

 _Need a drink…need it…must have it…_

And he intended to drown in it till the raven returned to pick him dry on the last day.

Sauriel had sensed he would be drunk before he even returned home, wild-eyed and slurring swear words as he staggered in the door and nearly knocked down her shelf of fruit preserves.

"So I assume you're very pleased with yourself now," she remarked sarcastically. "Sansa will no doubt be overcome to find you in such a state."

He laughed, an empty laugh. "Sansa?" he repeated. "She'll be off with her…rescuer…by now…"

Sauriel squinted. She had been against Tyrion allowing Sansa to take part in the tournament ceremonies to begin with, but this new defeatist attitude was simply the last straw. "So you won't even put up a fight?" she challenged.

"All she was worth to me was…was another little virgin to pluck!"

She considered this drunken declaration carefully. "Then why did you never get around to the plucking? Did you lack the manhood?"

He turned on her, a growl in his throat. "I…have…manhood," he defended himself in a gravelly tone. "You ask…ask anyone…they'll know my…accomplishments…I am the dwarfish king of whoredom…" He touched his forehead suddenly, as if to still a shooting pain.

"Then why did you wait so long to claim her maidenhead?"

"I…I was leading her along…like a lamb to the slaughter…a stupid little lamb…I just played a little…game…yes, I am an expert at games," he chortled, but it came out like choking.

"And now you've lost the game?" she surmised. "What misstep has robbed you of your prize, little man?"

"Nothing…robbed me of it," he retorted. "It was…amusing for a while, but…now I've grown tired of it, so…I'm done with her. She's such a…a simpering…child…she'd have brought me no pleasure…"

"Enough of this!" Sauriel bellowed. "You are the one acting like a baby whose rattle is being taken away! Are you so mean-minded as to want to break the rattle into so many pieces beforehand?"

He stared at her, gleaming and goggle-eyed, then bit down hard on his lip, so hard, his teeth broke the skin.

"I'm not…trying…to break… _anything_ …but…but…" He inhaled hard. "But… _her cage_."

"Oh," she exhaled, shaking her head. "What a fool you have become."

He lunged toward her awkwardly in answer to the insult, stumbled, and pitched forward onto the floor. He made an involuntary moan of pain, and she reached a hand towards him.

"Keep away!" he snarled. " _Away!_ "

She obliged him, realizing that he needed to work this out on his own, in more ways than one. He tried to get himself up again, but his body would not obey him. His head was spinning and his legs felt as if they were cast from lead.

Slowly, slowly, he began to drag himself forward across the floor. It hurt, scraping his belly along the ground, like some kind of reptile, clawing at the ground with his small, malformed hands. Sauriel winced as she watched, but still she held herself back from intervening.

Slowly, slowly, the ground slid under him.

 _Go on, little viper, little inch-worm, go…_

He remembered the taunts from his childhood, when he had first learned to walk, still struggling at age 4 to gain the balance needed even to stand without wobbling and collapsing in a heap on the floor. The servants of his household would snicker and mutter among themselves who would have to touch the goblin this time. When his nurse finally picked him up, her hands tensed with revulsion, as if she were touching a spider or a toad. She had always felt slighted to be assigned to the stunted outcast child, and did little to hide her feelings. But something about her cold touch had often made him want to cry when he was too young to understand it all, but he always bit down through the skin of his lip instead.

 _He was a Lannister…even then…oh…_

He remembered his father forcing him to walk the twisting stairs of one of the high castle towers, laughing his heartless laugh whenever the little boy fell down, scraping the skin from his hands and face, with the taste of his own blood and salt tears on his tongue. He remembered how Twyin would shout at him to get up, get up or be left there in the dark all night, hurt and frightened and clinging to the stairs like an insect on a leaf…

 _And who are you, the proud…lord…said…that I must…bow…so…low…? So…low…_

Now, on the floor of Sauriel's shop, his lungs felt stretched with the exertion as he dragged himself towards the hearth, towards the cot, where he could sleep off the drugged memories. Finally, finally…he reached it…pulled himself up…onto it…and coughed at the way his breathing trembled inside him. He lay flat on his belly, so….tired…

Then the scent of lemons tickled his nose. It penetrated the alcohol's haze, so gently…like the touch of Sansa's lips had penetrated the haze of his life. Softly, softly, like a mother's embrace he had never known, he felt softness brush against his cheek. Her nightgown…still lying…on the bed…

 _"Night…love you…"_

It was the end game, splitting the board and shattering all the pieces. And then the tears came like blood drawn from a mortal wound, and he sobbed so long and hard he felt his strained lungs might burst open. He clutched at the material, struggling to refer the pain built up over so many years that he feared might kill him at long last. And then he brought the gown to his lips and kissed it, again and again and again…until, exhausted, he fell against its softness, and drifted away…

Sansa returned home late from the last night of the tournament. Sauriel immediately noticed that her eyes were red and swollen.

"Are you alright, sparrow?" she inquired with motherly tenderness.

Sansa rubbed her hand across her face. "I must…have somewhere else to sleep. He…he doesn't want me near him, and…and I suppose I am to marry Lord Torquil. So…so it would inappropriate anyway and…I…"

"Do you love this…Torquil?" the old woman questioned.

"I don't know. I don't know…anything…anymore…" She closed her eyes tight, to try to stop the intense burning.

Sauriel took Sansa by the shoulders gently. "Listen to me, girl. There is something that every healer must remember. When sickness wields its heavy hand, it often has a voice. It speaks through the people it afflicts. The little man – your _friend_ – is sick in his soul, and now with the drink. Do not be quick to judge him for the demons that torture him. He must learn to make peace with them if he ever hopes to gain power over them. If you care for him at all, you must do the same."

"I thought I cared for him," she whimpered. "I…I thought I could even be…be his own…one day…but he…he hurt me…he said horrible things…"

"He thought he was hurting you for your own good. He is a fool, but a fool who wants your happiness above his own. That's why he thought a little pain now would save you a lifetime of pain in the future."

Sansa turned her eyes down. "Am I to blame for all this?"

Sauriel shook her head. "Casting blame never heals wounds. Only love does that."

"But he doesn't want my love," she countered. "I…disgust him…"

Sauriel paused, then started to guide her towards the main room where the hearth burned.

"No, please, I…I don't want to see him…like this…"

"He's quite harmless now," she assured. "It will only take a moment, and then you may sleep with me tonight."

Reluctantly, Sansa obeyed. Stepping tentatively inside, she saw very little by the meager light of the dying fire. But as her eyes adjusted, she made out Tyrion's small form sprawled haphazardly across the mattress, all tangled up in something.

Yes, it was…her nightgown.

For a moment, she felt alarmed, wondering what might make him reach for it. It might simply have been out of the burning lust he expressed so violently in the woods…but no, no…somehow…she knew better.

She moved closer and knelt down next to the cot, observing that he was decidedly unconscious, but his breaths were wheezing. Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out and touched his cheek, accidentally falling into tracing his scar again.

 _Yes…his face was wet._

She felt a lump rising in her throat as she let her hand gently stroke the edge of his hair. And she noticed for the first time that it had changed color, growing lighter from time spent in the summer sun.

 _It was…soft._

He stirred slightly, but did not awaken. Indeed, she was familiar with how deeply he slept when intoxicated. She thought about trying to pry the gown away from him and tuck him in with a sheet, but seeing how he was clutching it like a small child clinging onto a favorite blanket for security, she could not bring herself to do it.

Suddenly that simple dressing gown seemed worth so very much more then the expensive evening gown her noble suitor had purchased her, bragging all along about its cost to prove his love to her. Tyrion had proved his own in a different way, by cradling her when she was frightened, and gently rubbing her shoulder beneath the material he now clung to so tightly. And who could put a price on that kind of love? Yes, even now, after all he had said, she knew it was still true.

But he was pushing her away from him on instinct, pushing away the only one who could return the love he so desperately wanted to show. And there was nothing she could do about it. Nothing but let the tears slide down her cheeks as the last embers of the fire turned to ashes.


	10. Chapter 9: The Maiden and the Bear

**Okay, group….HEAVY WARNING: This is the darkest chapter to date, especially the last few paragraphs, so if you have a weak stomach for violent character deaths, be aware of what's coming. I don't want anyone traumatized, so I will assure you now…even though the ending of this chapter is…bleak, to say the least…it's NOT the end of the story. Like, Sauriel *is* here for a reason, and a lot my inspirations on this story come from mythology and fairytales…so…there will be more developments developing…and the light at the end of the tunnel *is* coming. THIS IS NOT THE END!**

Chapter 9: The Maiden and the Bear

The next day was the ball concluding the harvest festivities. It was to be held at the manor of Lord Torquil, the victor of the competitions. And naturally, Sansa was expected to be there at his side, his consort for the evening…and, very possibly, ever after.

But she seemed none too eager to participate. Stiff as a manikin, she had allowed Sauriel to help dress her for the occasion, but had made no movement to leave. No, she just sat in her favorite chair by the fire, with her hair flowing loose and free, fingering her healer's crystal she had insisted on wearing. She let the minutes tick by, wishing away what had to be.

When she was a good quarter of an hour late, Tyrion came in to see her. He was sober by this time, although still not completely steady in his walking. She got the distinct impression he wanted to say something to her very much…but was not entirely sure what that something was, or how he was supposed to say it. After all, the words he had spoken to her the day before were intended to split them up. But he was still here, and she was still here. And it was awkward.

So he just stared at her, distractedly, and she stared back at him. For a little while, Sansa wondered if they were going to go on like that all night, guessing at each other's thoughts but not daring to utter a word. Finally, Tyrion summoned enough courage to blurt out, "M'lady, you…really must go."

She crossed her arms tight around her and shook her head. "I don't want to."

"Sansa, it's highly improper…"

"Improper?!" she exploded. "You're going to lecture me on what's improper?"

"No," he exhaled. "It's just…I have no idea how he might react to such an affront. He's your champion, and this is his victory celebration. He'll be disgraced in front of everyone if you don't arrive."

"I never promised him I'd come. In fact, I never promised him _anything_." She eyed him harshly. "It's rather complicated to discern what's fitting and proper when one's… _guardian_ …wants his charge to act like a woman in the body, while at the same treating her like a child in the mind."

He sighed. "Look, I'm not going to go through all that again. Once was…more than enough for me."

From the tremor in his voice, she gathered that his rant in the woods had not given him great pleasure, and in fact, had caused him more than a little pain. But apologies and explanations still seemed beyond his reach at this stage. _Typical man._

"Just…think rationally," he implored. "We both know how insane nobles can be when deprived of what they see as belonging to them by right."

"Yes," she acknowledged bitterly. "It seems a very consistent reality."

Tyrion shut his eyes. "Right, so you hate me," he mumbled. "That's entirely the point."

She raised an eyebrow, trying to grasp his meaning. Then her expression softened. There was clearly more to this than met the eye. _She had to test him._

"If I asked very politely, would you…go with me?"

"What?"

"As my escort. It's proper for a young lady to have one."

He shook his head. "Sansa, they'd take one look at me and laugh us both out of the hall. You know that. It would be…pointless."

"But there's no one else," she whispered. "I promise…this will be the last kindness I'll ask of you. If this arrangement works the way you seem to think it will, I'll be gone in no time, and you need never be bothered with my presence again."

Again, he seemed unable to find words, and proceeded to stare at her for a long moment.

"I shouldn't," he stated at last. "But if that's the only way to make you…go..."

She turned her eyes down. _That part hurt._

He too wrenched his gaze away from her. "Let's just go."

The celebration was already in progress when Sansa and Tyrion made their entrance in the hall of Lord Torquil. Unblinkingly, Sansa introduced Tyrion as her "guardian and protector." As predicted, the hall erupted in laughter. Torquil did not laugh immediately, but there was a glinting grin on his face which somehow unnerved her. She had not seen it in all her time spent with the man on the fairgrounds, but now, in front of Tyrion, there was a cynical glee about it that made her feel sick.

Over the past two weeks, Tyrion had been actively suppressing his natural suspicion due to his own inferiority complex in the face of emotional complexities. The feelings of genuine affection, he realized, had done little to keep his armor of the mind polished in a state of readiness for war. Now it was all a little late to go back and rethink things, even through his gut instinct finally starting to wake up and reassess the situation.

 _Something just…wasn't right. Just watching the Torquil ceremoniously giving Sansa back the sash he had won for her. It was like a chain, latching her to him…like a prisoner…_

Dinner did little to quell either of their apprehensions. Note worthily, Sansa was the only woman present in a room full of merchants and nobles. The seating arrangement had Sansa next to her "champion", with her "protector" off to the other side of the table. Now, even if she needed protecting, he was a bit far off to even try to attempt anything. And worse yet for her position, both the men in her life were being rather free with the wine going around.

For Tyrion, the bottle was a godsend, something to keep himself preoccupied when one or another of the lords in attendance would take a jab at his stature or scars. Ordinarily, he would have fought back with more fire, but he did not want to ruin what could be salvaged of the evening for Sansa. He could safely ignore whatever this prestigious event had to offer with a full glass in his hand.

Until, that is, he heard the strains of "The Maiden and the Bear" from the hired players pick up in the background. Prior to this, Tyrion had only ever heard it played in the brothels and taverns of ill repute that he had so often frequented in his colorful past. Sansa, he imagined, had probably never heard it before, but she still reddened at the crudeness of the words and connotations.

"What shall she do with a bear? The bear, the bear…all black and brown and covered with hair…" Torquil and his friends belted out, laughingly.

 _What the hell…why would a nobleman regale his lady with a song about a beast…licking the honey out of her hair…?_

Tyrion turned to Sansa for the first time all evening, and their eyes met. She looked like she was searching for some strain of the friend she had grown to trust and depend on, who had provided her with a safe haven from the cruelty that had wracked her world.

Then her eyes took on a shade of despair. He knew she was remembering his outburst the day before, wondering if their friendship really _had_ been just a game, and that she really _was_ all alone in the world, the play-thing of savage men on all sides.

Torquil ran his hand along the back of her neck seductively, and she shivered. Something jostled inside Tyrion.

"Stop that bloody song!" he bellowed. "It's not fitting for my lady's ears."

Torquil looked genuinely shocked at his boldness. " _Your_ lady?" he repeated incredulously. "She's _mine_ now, half man."

"Not if you treat her like a whore, she's not!"

First, silence flooded the room. Then Torquil let out a loud laugh, and his guest joined in, pounding their goblets on the table. "And you're going to fight me for her?" He challenged.

Tyrion burned red, fired hot with fury and frustration. _Kill, kill, kill the money-grubbing, dirt-rolling, snott-faced son of a bastard prince…_

"Oh, come now, I wish for no feud with you, little master," Torquil insisted unconvincingly. "In fact, to show you my good will, I'll even let you make one last toast to your former charge."

Tyrion got off the chair slowly and raised his glass in front of him defiantly. Now was his chance to show off his biting Lannister wit, his infamous determination to have the last word, his refusal to be cowed by mockery by giving it back in turn and taking no quarter. He could show that his time away from the viper's nest at King's Landing had not softened his cynicism, not blunted his cutting edge…

But then he looked at Sansa and saw that her eyes were weak with pain. Her face was blanched as she awaited his words, words she seemed to have already predicted might just wound her all the more by making her a pawn in yet another round to save his pride. His intent faltered. All the clever lines he could have said died on his tongue.

"To she who is most desirable for her presence alone," he whispered, the broken shards of his heart scratching at his throat. "Like the strength of a rose in winter gives hope to men…"

Just then, the glass which he had been gripping so tightly, cracked in his hand. It gashed his palm, and the pain made him drop it to the ground. Torquil and his guests burst into laughter once again. Tyrion closed his eyes to hide from the shame, and felt his way back to his seat. He blindly reached for his napkin, to sop up the wine and blood…

In moments, he felt her hand on his. She was kneeling down next to him, wrapping up his hand in her sash, the one Torquil had worn throughout the tournament. He turned his eyes away. "M'lady…don't…they'll just disgrace you further…"

She seemed not to hear him at all, but continued to place pressure on his hand, which was now trembling. He clutched the table with his other hand as he heard the noblemen continue cackling, and Torquil saying it would be bad luck for her to get dwarf's blood on her fair hands. That there would be more worthy things for them to caress that night. His mouth dried, his head throbbed, and his stomach twisted.

 _He knew now what he should have known all along…they were cruel…and they'd use her… and it was all his fault…_

"I need…the wine, please…please get me another glass…it hurts if I don't have it, please…"

She swallowed back tears at his pleading with her for something to numb the pain. He was not used to enduring this sort of torture without the security of a glass in his hands. He had been alcoholic, after all, although she had somewhat forgotten it over the past six months. When he was happy with her, he hadn't seemed to need the alcohol in excess. Now it looked as if he might have a panic attack without it.

"It's alright, its going to be alright," she calmed him, stroking his sleeve. "I'll get you another glass, I promise."

"I…I'm not sure I can pour…my hand…"

"I'll pour it for you," she assured. "It'll be alright, I promise, you'll be alright..."

He gazed into her eyes, and all at once he knew he had been wrong to try and push her away from him. The tears springing up from them were drawn from the deepest inner well, brought forth when one's own heart is pierced. So her heart was his own, and his was within hers. _Why had he refused to believe that earlier?_

She stood up and stepped towards Torquil, who was holding the wine bottle. She extended her hand towards it. "My lord, if you please…"

"I do not believe I would be able to conscience that," he declared smugly.

She closed her eyes tight. "My lord, please…"

"You see, sweeting, the drink serves either to enhance euphoria or blot out realities, for some small space of time, and I really don't think that indulging false illusions is ethical. A man should get used to his own face, no matter how disgusting it is."

"There is nothing in his face that disgusts me," she stated with resolve.

He smirked. "But of course! You're a maiden, and he's your bear."

She watched silently as he poured out the contents of the bottle in a crimson cascade, and the cruel laughter rose up from the table like a gurgling brook. She took a step back and touched Tyrion's shoulder. His mouth was partially open, watching the wine form a puddle on the floor. She squeezed his shoulder tightly, lest some animal impulse might cause him to try and lap it up like a dog. Then she turned back to Torquil, daggers striking through her eyes.

"No, he's a _man_ ," she responded, rage creeping through her restraint, "and you're not even half."

Before he could respond, Sansa took hold of Tyrion's hand and ushered him out of the room and into the outer courtyard.

"My lady…" he addressed her shakily. "No…"

" _Yes_ ," she insisted firmly, stepping outside.

"I know…I know this kind…kind of men…" he stammered, bracing his back against the courtyard wall to quell his alcoholic spasms. "He will not…just…let you go. I have to think…think of a way out…"

Sansa knelt down and gripped him by both shoulders, feeling the tension in them. "I need to get you home. You're not well…"

"I'm not a moron either!" he burst out. "And I don't want to be patronized and treated like a child!"

"No one is doing any such thing," she exhaled. "Everyone knows how intelligent you are. That's why people wanted to kill you, remember? You were too smart for them, and they hated you for it. You've survived situations no one could survive unless they had the keenest of wits. Even here, in a strange land, you're mind has assured you give orders, and not just take them. You have always been, and will always be, your own master."

He looked at her hand on his shoulder and muttered, "My wits…seem to have failed me…these past weeks. I…I put you in danger here…because I was…afraid…of it happening again…I…wanted to get it over and done with…" He shivered. "Everyone I know…always…goes away in the end."

She inclined her head a little closer to his. "I'm not going anywhere."

"But that's just it! You'd live your life as a prisoner of pity!"

"Not pity," she refuted. "Never pity. How could I pity a man who has saved my life time and again?"She touched his face lightly. "But that doesn't mean that you don't need to be helped sometimes, just like I've needed to be helped many times. It's not a matter of treating each other like children, it's a matter of being…helpmates. No one else could understand the things we've been through together, no one else can read each other's hearts like we can. That's why we take care of each other. That's why we _need_ each other. "

He felt a tingling sensation run up his spine at the sound of her northern accent coming through her words.

 _A true-born daughter of the North, she was, her father's blood flowing rich and red in her veins, and his soul knit into her own..._

Just then, a hand covered in chainmail gripped Sansa's arm and pulled her up. It was one of Torquil's guards. "My lord demands you be brought to his quarters."

"His… _quarters_?" Tyrion repeated. "Clearly his lordship is wasting no time in testing the effectiveness of his…manly charms."

"Shut your trap, dwarf!"

"Tell Torquil, from one old player of the game to another, that he needs to read the rules more carefully," Tyrion lectured, his old tit-for-tat reemerging with vigor. "Attempted seduction must end in consent or rejection. You may use any type of treat you wish to lure the damsel into your lair, from the size of your manhood to the coinage in your pockets, but having her physically dragged? No…that's just cheating."

"It is not my desire to go with you," Sansa informed the guard coolly. "Release me this instant."

"What a shame, little damsel," her captor jeered, starting to pull her towards the door.

"I really wouldn't do that, if I were you," Tyrion advised.

The guard laughed and twisted her arm as she started to struggle.

Quicker than quick, he unhitched the wooden shield attached to a lion gargoyle in the courtyard, which conveniently, was perfectly fitting for the littlest Lannister lion's use. Then, with a level of skill Sansa never knew he possessed, he rapidly struck the guard in the legs with the shield and knocked him to the ground. Before the man could rise, Tyrion proceeded to smash him in the face with it.

Whether the guard was dead or merely unconscious, Sansa could not tell, but her mouth hung open in shock at the sight of the bloodied shield in Tyrion's hands.

"Don't stand about gaping, m'lady!" he panted. "Run!"

"But you…"

"Just _go_!"

She dodged behind a statue just as two more guards stepped out into the courtyard. A melee ensued, one which Sansa knew from the start Tyrion had no way of winning. All he was trying to do now was buy her time to escape. But she couldn't tear herself away.

He was a much better physical fighter then she had expected, and she now began to understand how he had achieved legendary status for his rallying the forces at Blackwater and earning his facial scar. He might be small, but he was also fast and ferocious, like a badger smoked out of its hole.

But this could only go so far in evening out the sheer unfairness of the fight. It was a wooden shield against two swords being swung by much large opponents, with his back up against a wall. Then two more guards came and knocked the shield from his hands. It was the end game.

Sansa's eyes burned blood red as they kicked him to the ground commenced beating him with the blunt ends of their swords. She stepped out of the shadows on impulse, and one of the guards instantly seized her. She strained against the hands twisting both her arms behind her. "No, stop, stop! Stop, please! STOP! You're killing him!"

"You're getting the idea, little girl," the guard snickered.

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she watched them continue to beat him and kick him hard in the chest, in the face. She could have sworn she heard his ribs snap, his jaw break, and his effort to suppress a muffled groan. She remembered how his twisted bones pained him already, and knew how much agony he had to be in. She saw a puddle of blood forming on the ground beneath him.

"No, please…please…I'll do anything you want," she sobbed. "Just let him alone!"

"Quite attached to that abominable little troll, aren't you?" Torquil was standing in the threshold, arms crossed, with a self-satisfied expression on his face.

Sansa turned and her eyes blazed with a raw emotion. "He is my _husband!_ " she screamed, so loudly that her lunges ached and her ears felt pierced through. "My _husband!_ I love my husband…" Then she broke down weeping.

"Yes, so I gathered. Lord Tyrion Lannister and Lady Sansa Stark, is it not?"

She gasped, frozen in time through the realization that their lives were truly forfeit.

"Never fear, my lady, I shan't turn you in for any price offered. I am a man of honor, and you are far too precious a jewel. The dwarf, however –" He gestured to his guards, one of whom yanked the limp Tyrion to his feet, and placed his dagger's blade snugly beneath his chin. "I believe the arrangement from House Lannister _is_ dead or alive."

"No…" She felt all the strength drain from her body as Tyrion made eye contact with her. His scar had been ripped open and his face was covered in blood, but she still saw that strange, soft look clouding his criss-cross gaze. That look that drank up the sight of the one thing he loved, with the knowing that he would never see it again with his living eyes.

And now there was something else present in those eyes as well, the same look her father had given her just before he was beheaded. A look that said everything would be alright, somehow, and she shouldn't blame herself for what was happening. That she was still his "treasure."

 _Oh, father…oh, Tyrion…so different, yet so very much the same…_

"It's the natural way of things," Torquil rationalized. "The love of beauty always kills the beast."

Sansa felt as if a knife had been plunged into her at his words, just as she saw knife thrust up into Tyrion's neck. Blood spilled out of his mouth, and he choked. She screamed as a final gurgling gasp escaped him and they pushed him down to the ground. She tore one of her arms free and reached out towards his crumpled body as it was cast down the stairs, gasping for her own breath that she felt was being crushed out of her body as she watched him die.

She heard Torquil snicker. It was the final straw. She lunged at him with a strength she did not know she had, freeing herself from the guard for a moment, and yanking Torquil's dagger from his belt. She struck at him blindly, and slashed him across the face, leaving a gash that extended from the bridge of his nose to the corner of his mouth…not so very different from Tyrion's scar.

As one of the guards seized hold of her one arm and dragged her back, the injured nobleman pressed his hand over his wounded face and growled, "I'll make you pay for that, little wild cat! Just wait till you share my bed…"

 _No…no…I want to be with Tyrion…he'll hold me, and whisper kind things to me, and help me get to sleep…_

Sansa squeezed the hilt of the dagger in her other hand, gritted her teeth, and thrust it deep into her lower belly. She moaned like a doe shot by hungers and sank to her knees. The guard released her, shocked at the sight of the blood pouring out of her, a crimson cascade staining the stairs as she started to drag herself down them with the dagger still in her. Slowly, slowly, she made her way closer to his body, crumpled on the stairs, just as she had found him when she was a child on their first meeting.

She sobbed at sight of so much blood, both his and her own, mixing and mingling as she laid herself down against him, as the energy and will to live drained from her. "You don't have to climb alone," she gasped through the tears and pain. "I can…help you…"

Then she felt another chainmail clad hand clenched hard against her arm like a dog's teeth. She knew what was going to happen, wavering between life and death as she was. She was a dying animal now, of no use to anyone's game, and someone had come to deal the fatal stroke.

He turned her over on her back, and held her down by tugging her hair hard as he drew out his blade. _Why so hard? There's nowhere else to run…death is the only refuge left…_

She twitched out of reaction when she felt the knife's edge press against her throat and start to saw back and forth, like sawing wood. She felt the hot blood start to run down her neck…the neck Tyrion once thought so attractive…

The cold metal sank deeper, as if through butter, and she felt it stealing her breath away. She tasted blood trickling into her mouth, she choked on it…but could not breathe.

The death-labor was on her now, and her whole body writhed as the knife sliced through her pulsing veins and tore through her windpipe.

Her eyes were as empty glass now, and her face had gone from a sickened green to a deadened gray. Her lips were drained white, even as the tide of dark purple gushed over them, and her slit throat flailed once more, like the gills of a dying fish.

A last tear ran down her cheek, and a last word clung to her last fleeting breath. It was "mama", but no one heard it, drowned out by the ocean of death. No one saw the glint of moonlight through her healer's crystal in the jaws of darkness.

Her head fell back onto Tyrion's chest…and she found her sleep there.


	11. Chapter 10: Through the Veil

**Howdy! As promised, we're back :D Okay, so, this may turn out to be really emotional, fluffy, traumatic, or cheesy, depending on perspective, but at least its something to move on from the mini "red wedding" in the last chapter! So...you may want to have Kleenex on hand, just in case you do find it emotionally compelling, and if not...well, better to be prepared! ;)**

 **Also, since this is about the half-way mark (or possibly a little further than that) in our tale, I'd like to take a survey: what part in the story so far has been your favorite?**

 **Enjoy guys...and thanks so much for being great friends and a great audience! :)**

Chapter 10: Through the Veil

 _It was a nightmare…but it felt so real. All the faces flickering like candles and melting like wax. There was Tysha, the peasant girl who had been his first love so many years before, ravaged by order of his father. There was Shae, a prostitute like so many others since then who had brought him nightly pleasures and distraction, betraying him out of spite and a purse offered him by his sister. Had he cared for her at all? Had she cared him at all? Perhaps, just a little, in spite of themselves…and that possible reality hurt more than anything._

 _So many women, all morphing into a single image. It was his mother, the mother he could not remember. Why then did he keep hearing her screams tearing through his soul, see her blood running free down her legs? And then…she turned into Sansa. And his father's hands were on her, and he had her pressed down in a choke hold against the bed, tearing off her clothes. Tyrion strained towards her, but could not reach her. He was helpless, as he had always been, to save the ones he cared for most._

 _He cried out for her not to fight it, that it would only hurt worse, that it would be over soon. In the end, broken and deflowered as she might be, he could still be there to comfort her, to calm her down, and hold her tight against him and let her cry it out. Then he turned, this evil man he had been forced to call "father", and snickered, "You didn't think I'd really let you have her back, did you?" Then he put his hands around her long, swan-white neck, and squeezed…_

Tyrion awoke, a cry rising from his throat, but the sound would not come forth. There was something soggy in his mouth, and it tasted of blood. He grimaced as the full force of pain flooded over him. Then he felt something warm and wet against his face. He struggled to raise his hand…he only managed a little bit, and clung onto a patch of fur.

 _Dog…a dog…licking his face…_

He let his fingers run along the fur, over and over and over, until the fur suddenly disappeared.

 _Don't go…don't go away…stay…_

He knew how pathetic it was, but he had never wanted so much to have a living thing near him, to keep him warm and keep him company. He was dying, he thought, and now he would die alone, as he always expected he would.

Death would surely find him when all his petty securities were stripped away, when he was drunk in some alley after his last party joke had been laughed off, or sprawled in a brothel bed after the hussy had taken all the money from his pockets and moved on to a more pleasing lover. Or maybe it would be a dagger to the back by some assassin behind the curtains in his chamber, or perhaps his own hands guiding it into his heart. Crumpled up and quieted at last, they would find him.

And what would they say, the gossiping servants, the tavern keepers, the brothel women, or street sweepers, the men with the blood on their blades and the minds he had sparred with and beat, when he was oh-so clever, so very clever…the cleverest of the Lannister litter, with claws, such fine claws…?

 _For mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours…_

Yes, as long and sharp as…his father's…his father should have been so proud to have…such a son...even after…they found him…would he not own…his own…flesh…and blood…and twisted bone…?

 _Look, a dead dwarf. Get it out of here._

Yes…yes, that's what they would all say. That's what his own father would say at the sight of him. _Get – it – out – of – here…_

And the servants would mutter among themselves again…over who would have to touch the goblin this time…this last time…

Surely some voices would speak of his deeds of cunning as the littlest Lannister in the lion's den, his sly service as the King's Hand, the enemy fleet he had annihilated with molten green flame, burning flesh and screams, such screams that would haunt him until his dying day, of men dying in fire and water, and the city he had secured for his family's banner…

They might recall his hell-raising pluck, his crass wit, his perverse pride in pleasuring harlots and guzzling wine…the late nights, running together like thick black tar, of dark pleasures and sporting stabs at all that was sacred…standing on a table, with a goblet in hand, laughing through the pain…a grotesque freak show…beware the small ones, they would say…

They might chortle in the streets, half from a grudging admiration, half at the cosmic joke that was his life, spit from the side of their mouths and toast to the little bastard's death, and his burning body on the pyre, and burning soul in the Seven Hells.

 _But would anyone remember…that he had loved the scent of hay?_

 _Or the way old books…make a crackling sound…when the pages are turned?_

 _Or the candle flames that flicker purple…?_

 _Or…flowers…wild, untended…growing in a wall…?_

His whole body tightened as his memory flooded back. _Sansa. Sansa. Sansa…_

He tried to speak her name, but the blood ran down his throat, and he started to choke. His whole body contorted in pain. And then he felt hands on him, and the cloth being pulled out of his mouth, and a bowl put in front of him to spit out bloodied saliva. He was gasping as he fell back against the cot, dazed and dizzy, but his eyes still slowly adjusted to the face of Sauriel hovering over him like a ghostly autumn moon.

"S…S…San...sa…" he forced out, pain puncturing his jaw. "Sss…ansa…Sansa…"

"Calm," Sauriel whispered, touching the side of his face, and there was sorrow in her touch. "Calm…"

"Where…is she? Where…?"

"She's gone." The words tore out of her with a shiver. "She thought…you were dead…but the guard did not kill you. He thrust his knife below your chin in such a way as to make them think the deed was done…but he did not do as he was ordered."

"Don't…understand…"

"He recognized Sansa as one who saved his wife and child during a hard labor, so he could not kill you. He would not kill her either, but…there were other guards…"

"No," he spat, gripping her wrist with all the strength in him. "No, Torquil…wanted her…he would not…harm her…"

"She harmed herself, with a knife through the belly," she rasped. "She was of no use to them anymore, so…he ordered her…put out of her misery."

Tyrion stared up at her blankly, making no movement, no reaction. It was too deep a mortal hurt to trivialize by normal phases of mourning. No, it was the killing kind, that bite to the throat that severs the wind pipe in an instant. Death was coming…at last…

But some spark of light returned to his eyes as a thought journeyed across his blurred mind. "Where…where is she…now?"

"The guard who let you live let me know what had happened, and helped me…bring you both home." She swallowed hard, and gestured to kitchen. "She's in there."

Tyrion tried forcing himself up. "Take me…take me…to her…"

"You can't be moved, not with a splint…"

"Just…take me," he panted. "For the love…of the gods…take…take me…" He gripped her sleeve and crumbled into her lap.

Sauriel turned her face away.

"I order you to, I order it, don't you know I could have you killed, I order it!" It was a scream of his former self, his fearsome front at King's Landing, the death threats that always kept him safe and got him what he wanted. "I'll kill them… _murderers_ …kill them all…slow, with the knife…cut out their hearts and livers and bowels…stick on spikes for the birds…for touching her…" He was ranting wildly, derailing altogether. But he seemed to realize the futility of it seconds later, overwhelmed by a surge of self-blame, and trembled at the thought of his utter helplessness. "Please…please…" He was begging now, hands clasped, face buried in her dress, barely able to breathe.

At long last, he felt himself being lifted up by her and taken into the kitchen. Slowly, she settled him into a chair that was there, and helped him position his hands on the wooden arms so he would have something to grip when the pain became too intense. Then she moved away from him. Everyone was entitled the space to grieve in their own way.

Sansa lay on a low table directly in front of him, as white and silent as the northern snows, draped over with blue material from the bolt given her by Torquil on that fateful first evening of the fair. She was still wearing her healer's crystal over her stilled heart. Her auburn hair fanned out loose around her, contrasted by the ruby red incision across her neck, and the stains seeping through the material covering her belly.

 _"I want your blood on the sheets!"_ He remembered his words flung at her in the blindness of his pride and fear, and wished for death to steal the cruel irony away from him.

He reached out and touched her face gently, trembling at its coldness. But she was still loveliness itself, even in death. He let his fingers run along the strands of her hair, softly, so softly. He remembered out in the woods, in their magic place, when he would pretend to be asleep so she would lay her head down on his chest…

"A princess…" he whispered. "They wed me…to a princess…"

His throat swelled. He leaned forward towards her, the splint biting into his shattered rib cage. He sucked in a breath. _O gods, let me reach her…_

"I could be a cynic…once…" His voice was so weak, he could barely hear himself. "The world…was dark…and terrible…I began to think…I was…untouchable…"

He forced himself forward a little further, and the pain cut his heart like a jagged stone.

"But you…you came…and touched me." He felt his eyes grow hot as burning coals. "I look at you…and you are _beautiful_ …and…it hurts…it _hurts_ …" He bit through his lip. "But…I can't ever go back…I _want_ you, all that is you, always…you're…my lady…my _life_ …"

Finally his lips reached her own, starving for comfort and for claim, and he melted into their icy depths. Oh, so deep…deep, deep, deep down…he wanted to drown in that aching beauty that once gushed from her soul, to pour himself out in the act of loving her.

Oh, yes, he realized now…it did not have to be mutually exclusive. Love and desire could be tangled up together, even though he had long forgotten just how intense such a union of factors could be. He wanted the flame of her life to burn through the essence of his being, but all that was left to him was the ashen casket of her body. The absence of even a spark stung him more than a thousand battle wounds.

"Don't…leave me…alone," he pleaded, and the tears ran down his face onto her own. "Come back…come back to me…or…take me with you…"

His lips found her neck, and he kissed it passionately along the line of incision, as if loving her brokenness might somehow put her back together.

"Tyrion, come, come now…"

It was Sauriel, using his name for the first time, ushering him away from the corpse.

"But she needs me…she has nightmares…without me…"

"She's at peace now," she choked, gently lifting him out of the chair.

He was fast losing himself, too weak and sorrowful to fight or protest as she carried him back to the cot. Ordinarily, he would have given her a verbal thrashing for treating him like some toddler, but now he was beyond caring about appearances. All his pride, his anger, his nerve, his wit, and his natural thirst for revenge were evaporating in a pool of pain, sinking into a sickened slumber. There was almost no will left; only shock and a shutting down of the senses.

Sauriel seemed to realize this and continued to let him rest his head on her lap after laying him down on the cot. He shuddered from the pain that shot through his shattered ribs and torn jaw. He twined his fingers around her sleeve again as she began to dab his bloodied, bruised face with a wet cloth. Now more than ever, he needed to know someone was there.

"Am I…a ghoul?" he queried. "Kissing her…like…like that? It must have looked disgusting…"

"It looked like love," she responded. "And love knows no death."

"Death seems to follow me…always…" He blinked back fresh tears. "Sauriel, I don't want them to…hurt you too. You must…turn me in… my family would pay any price …you could live out your days in security…and death would be…a kindness to me…"

"But it would be no kindness to me," Sauriel replied, her voice trembling. "The little sparrow was the daughter I never had, and you are…the son that I lost."

He stared up her, weakly, perplexed.

"I had a love once when I was young, and he was false to me. But he left me with a child, and I became an outcast from my clan. So my little boy and I became wanderers, rejected and despised. He was clever and kind, my son, but also frail, and he fell very ill as we passed through Westeros, your old country. No one would help us, no one…except a fair young woman of a noble family who saw us on the side of the road, and came to help. She ordered a physician, and helped nurse him herself until help arrived, dabbing away the sweat of the fever with her own silken sleeve. When my son…died, she saw to his burial and gave me a place to stay until I was fit to move on. Her name was…Joanna. Your mother."

"Sauriel…Saur…" His voice stopped as she stuffed the packing back into his bloodied mouth.

"So…I lost my son, but now I am caring for her son in turn. Everything happens for a reason. Maybe now you're family to me, little man, yes?" she suggested tremulously, pulling up the blanket and tucking him in with it. "And family is as precious to the wanderer as open sky."

He shut his eyes tight, unable to say any more, but also unable to stop the tears that ran down his face once more. She wiped them away with the cloth.

"You just…rest," she murmured. "Don't think about anything, just…let yourself rest." She felt Arya the dog lick her hand. "You guard him well," she instructed, and placed her next to him. Obediently, she nuzzled her nose under his arm, and she saw him start petting her head with his shaking hand.

Finding herself overcome by seeing him in such a pitiful state, Sauriel stepped into the room where Sansa lay. Through her tears, she saw a glimmer in the healing crystal around the girl's neck. Her heart skipped a beat as she drew closer. There was a tiny point of light that burst forth and splintered into shafts of color, bleeding raw, rainbow hues, running over her white, bloodless body like a watercolor painting. It burned like fire and danced like a storm, with the defiance of a sun shower at dusk. It cut like a glinting blade, and Sauriel saw her path clear. The veil was thinning, and she could pierce it through.

Slowly, she approached the lifeless child and placed her hands on either side of her face. Then she leaned down and let their foreheads touch.

"Here we are, little sparrow," she whispered, "maiden and crone, beauty and age, the beginning and end of the great circle that binds us all."

She moved her hands onto Sansa's severed neck.

"O Light that brings all colors into being from the depths of space and the breadth of time, that guides every journey and decides every destiny," she prayed, "life and death are knit together in harmony, as is the radiance of day and the shadowing of night. They are sacred stairs on the same hallowed climb. And yet the power of love is your truest nature, O Light, and love can turn back even death, if the light wills to work through an instrument."

She felt her hands begin to tremble slightly, summoning up the strength of her craft. "I am a healer of the ancient ways, of the four elements and the four seasons, of root and berry, crystal flame and thin places. I have seen with eyes undimmed beyond the worlds, and what gifts I have been given I have used to make whole that which has been broken and return that which has been stolen..."

She winced at the pain running through her hands and assaulting her memory. "But I have lost _much_. My own son I could not save. I have never thought myself to be the final word. The wheel turns in its natural course, with little interruption. I have long resigned myself to the mystery of it. And yet I see by the grace of the healer's crystal, some powers transcend the wheel…yes, they shatter it at the hub. Perhaps this dwarf's tears are capable of penetrating the veil when nothing else can. He once was a fool of great earthly power, and now he is a wise man stripped bare, destroyed for love of love itself. Perhaps only the broken can truly heal."

She felt the heat pouring forth from her palms, like hot blood, coursing back into Sansa's neck. "I have known brokenness; break me more, if need be. I am old, and she is young. Take whatever grace has been given me, and pass it on to her. Let her know life and love, and share it freely, till the end of her days. Let it flow out to her husband, and let life flow back through them both to the next generation."

There was a flutter beneath her fingers now, a trickling pulse, measuring out moments, as light and warmth emanated from the crystal and soothed her ripped throat. Shattered veins sealed and slit flesh was welded together again. Slowly, slowly, it gained momentum, filling the void of her casket body, and rushing in with the breeze of breath. A drowned, struggled gasp, the pains of rebirth, and Sauriel held her tight against her as she rasped "mama…mama…"

"There, there, little sparrow," she sobbed over her. "You have a mama here."

Sauriel was half afraid to tell Tyrion that Sansa was alive. She thought he might die from a rush of emotions he would not be able to control. But after the initial shock of being awakened by the news, and a long, silent interval, he queried in a shaking voice, "Are you…a Red Priestesses…of the Lord of Light? They are the only ones…capable…of bringing back the dead…"

"No, for mercy's sake," she exhaled, shaking her head. "Their Lord demands the blood of innocents and the sacrifices of oppression. Such a deity is not of the light, but of the underworld. Whatever powers proceed from him come at a price too high to safely pay, and that mark him out as an imposter. He mocks the true Light, that writes the way of Light on every heart. No, I am no priestess, but only a simple healer…but I know that there is a deeper magic than that born of terror and domination. The crystal represents that…encases that, as a living grace. You…awakened that, and I brought it to fruition."

He shook his head, clearly confused, even disbelieving. But even the possibility of her words being true seemed to arouse his slumbering survival instinct. "We must…get her out of here…Torquil might…come looking…he still would be paid…for corpses…"

"I've already been packing the wagon," she assured. "I'm afraid our days in this city have run out their course. We'll all be dead meat now if we are found here. But inland, towards the mountains, we will be beyond their jurisdiction of the merchant princes. I am a traveler in the blood; I am used to making fast work of a camp site. And we have enough money, as I saved every coin you ever gave me."

He looked amazed. "Why…why would you do that?"

"I knew you'd be needing it someday, but I certainly wouldn't rob you of your pride in the meantime." She smiled slightly. "Call it a seer's foresight."

Once the wagon was sufficiently packed, Sauriel helped Tyrion inside.

"Listen, I'm going to put her back here with you," she explained. "I gave her something to make her drowsy, but if she comes around, she is going to be very disoriented. Indeed, she might not remember much at all. Just…be gentle with her."

He nodded awkwardly, not sure what else to say. When Sansa was laid next to him, he immediately noticed her neck was still scarred but no longer severed, and her breathing, though weak, was now perceptible.

 _It was true…it was…true…thank all the powers that be…she'd come back to him…_

Impulsively, he squeezed her hand, and she stirred. Just to see her move at all made his heart leap. But then her eyes flickered open and saw him leaning over her. Automatically, she recoiled in horror, a scream she could not utter lodged in her weak throat.

 _Oh…she didn't remember him at all. He was a monster to her, all over again…_

His heart sank like a stone to see the terror in her face. But still he recovered himself quickly.

"It's alright, sweetheart, I don't mean you any harm," he calmed her gently. "Truly…I may be ugly, but I'm not…dangerous." He smiled at her reassuringly, but once again recalling the many negative remarks he had received on it in the past, he was not entirely certain if it would have the desired effect.

But the intensity of her fear was subsiding at least. Now she had a look of one struggling to retrieve something that was lost, scanning his face for some trace of a memory. Then, hesitantly, she reached out and touched his face. She gazed at the blood on her fingers from his scar, ripped open in the fighting.

"Oh, gods…I must look hellish, all bloodied up…like this," he muttered, realizing for the first time how disturbing his present condition must have made him.

He prepared to turn away from her, but again he felt her touch, on his temple this time, and her fingers running softly through the edge of his hair. Slowly, deliberately, she brought her fingers to her lips, and then reached back out and touched his scar again.

He felt a warmth fill his torn body and decided to return the gesture by touching his own lips and then her scarred neck. She winced at the sensation due the heightened tenderness, so he quickly moved his fingers to her lips. She let them rest there for a long moment, and he felt a tear trickle down her cheek.

 _She may not remember,_ he thought, _but she does…know_. And that, for now, was enough.

The wagon lurched forward, and both of them were tossed to the right. Sansa squeaked as she landed against his rib splint, and he suppressed a groan at the pain the wrenched through his body. But again, he pulled himself together quickly for her sake.

"It's alright, love," he hissed through gritted teeth. "This thing can come in handy." He took her hand and laced her fingers through the separations in the splint. "Good for bracing yourself. And you can rest like this." He guided her head against his shoulder. "Among my many attributes, I make…a superlative pillow…for a rocky road."

He saw a wisp of a smile touch her lips in the fading city lights. And he was grateful beyond words.


	12. Chapter 11: Last Lights

**So…we're now coming full circle and have returned to fluff-land, with a twist of melancholy and a dash of desire for the end of summer (but not the story)! Hope ya'll enjoy!**

Chapter 11: Last Lights

The first week after leaving Caffe was hard. Sansa was very weak and skittish, and the rough ride in the back of Sauriel's wagon along winding inland roads, heading towards the mountains, did not help make her feel any more settled. She could not talk; her windpipe was still far too swollen to make anything but a hoarse whisper which caused her pain.

But that did not stop Tyrion from talking to her. Indeed, his own swelling around the jaw did little to halt his enthusiasm for chatting to her about whatever came to his mind, although Sauriel had cautioned him not to try too hard to jostle back her memory. In her state, she might have an anxiety attack if her more traumatic memories were unearthed all at once. So he did his best to keep it at small talk.

Sansa would watch him wide-eyed, a mix of wariness and curiosity on her face as he rattled on, seeming to wonder exactly who he was and what his real intentions were. Tyrion was sorely tempted to just blurt it all out and get it over with, but he restrained himself. He would simply have to continue to wait and hope for her memories to come back naturally…if they ever came back at all.

And so he forced himself to keep up a cheerful front, day in and day out, even when he often felt more like breaking down in tears over the fact that his beautiful bride, who had finally come to express affection for him as her husband in Torquil's courtyard, could no longer remember what they had been to each other. Indeed, she was almost experiencing a second childhood, although she had barely completed her first.

 _Poor child_. She had been through more in the course of her fifteen years than anyone should have had to go through in a hundred. And he, over the course of his thirty-some years, felt as if he had never really lived. But _she_ was alive. That was all that mattered now. Even if she remained lost in the shadows forever, her presence, however dimmed or damaged, kept his heart beating. He was shaken to the bone himself, and she was his only succor.

Forget the memories…forget the future possibilities…he'd resolved himself to a life of anonymity and celibacy if need be. Sauriel had hinted at the damage to both her body and her mind which might prevent her from ever being fully able to give consent or even carry out such an act. He was past the point of lamenting over it. _She was alive._ He could be kind to her, and win her trust again, and take care of her for the rest of his life. He could make love to her in every other way that mattered.

On the morning of her fifteenth name day, when the wagon halted to resupply outside the last village in the foothills before beginning the perilous journey up into the mountains, Sansa awoke to find herself surrounded by wild flowers. They were blood red and royal gold, and their fragrance was wild and adventurous. She turned and saw the dwarf, smiling broadly at her.

"Happy name day, Sansa!"

Now she looked at him and back to the flowers with a touch of concern and suspicion as to what the purpose of all this might be.

"Oh, yes, well…I know I might have overdone it with the flowers a little, but once I went all the way out there, I started to find so many nice ones I just couldn't leave them behind, and I couldn't go out for a second collecting round. When Sauriel gets back from the village with supplies, she would give me a proper thrashing if I tried walking with this thing twice in a day." He gestured to his splint. "She'll already be after me for doing it _once_ …"

He sighed softly noticing the quizzical look on her face, wondering if anything he was saying was getting through to her at all. "I…I'm sorry if sometimes…I prove…rather annoying, chattering to you hours on end. I suppose I just get…lonely."

He exhaled. _How could he explain the fear that had gripped him when he had seen her swallowed up in death? How could he ever explain the aloneness that had broken all his bones? How could he make her understand how very deeply he needed her?_

"I know it must all be quite confusing to you…having this cut up creature you can't remember turn out to be a hopeless romantic. Might even be scary…I really don't _mean_ to scare you, I just…hope you might come to like me…even a little. Not that you have to, because…you don't. That's not why I got you the flowers. I just…want you to have…a happy name day…well, as happy as you can have with me for your only companion."

Arya the dog barked in complaint at being neglected.

"Well, her too, but you get my general meaning." His eyes sparkled a little, first in fun, then in pain.

Sansa picked up one of the prettiest purple flowers gingerly and brushed the softness of the petals across her cheek. Then she inched towards him and tucked it into his hand, letting her fingers brush across his own just so.

He smiled at the gesture and the sympathetic look in her eyes. "Thank you. I…needed that."

She smiled sadly in return and touched her lips and then his cheek, in repetition of the gesture she make when she first woke. He touched the place where she had touched, chuckled a little, and bit back a sob. _Something for him to live on, at least_.

"Would you…like for me to tell you stories for your name day? Not just rambling on as I always do, but real stories that you might…enjoy?"

She tilted her head questioningly.

"I mean…I know it's not much, but…I've been told I can be amusing sometimes, and I've read all sorts of tales in old books, and heard more in taverns…" He paused for a moment. "On second thought, we'll just skip the tavern ones for now. I doubt they'd be in line with your sense of propriety."

He cleared his throat, and she blushed bashfully as he started to weave a yarn in his very brightest sing-song voice. She listened enraptured as he told her every old legend of heroism from the founding of the noble houses of Westeros he could think of. Of course, he had always viewed such tall tales of dramatic derring-do as mere flagrant attempts to rationalize their rise to power by hook or by crook, totally unrealistic and sickeningly hypocritical. But they still made good stories, and he could never be as cynical when looking at them through her eyes.

But just to make sure the retellings would not rattle her into the cruel reality of her past, he changed the names of the houses, so they felt more like fairytales. Indeed, some of names he came up with on the spot were rather outrageous, but he was enjoying himself, and Sansa seemed not to mind any of his twists of hyperbole in the plot lines. He thought for a moment of what his family might think watching such a comical display of the Imp telling bedtime stories to their wide-eyed teenaged hostage. And he felt a small victory at the thought for once, for they could not see as he saw now, and they would be laughing at their own crumbling senses and petty prizes he had exchanged for something worthier to claim.

Time passed pleasantly enough in this manner, until the sun sank in the west and the last fireflies of the fading summer made their appearance. This inspired Tyrion to make up a pretty little story about fireflies serving a beautiful queen whose gown comprised all the stars.

As if on cue, Arya began to bark at a firefly that made its way inside the wagon. With admirable swiftness of hand, Tyrion caught it and extended it to Sansa. "Another gift, m'lady," he offered gallantly.

She smiled as the firefly proceeded to flit from her hand onto her face and then along her hairline, flashing intermittently, like a magic jewel in a crown. It tickled. She fell back against the blanket spread down in the wagon for bedding and laughed for the first time since she had returned to life. He heard the semblance of her voice carried in that laugh, and his heart swelled.

"Sansa, do you think…do you think you could try and say your name?"

She looked hesitant as she sat up.

"Come on, I know you can do this," he encouraged her. "Once you manage it, it will all come easier after that."

She crawled over to him, like a frightened animal looking for comfort. Then very slowly she tried to make sounds come from her throat.

"Ssss...sss…"

She swallowed back pain

"Just take your time, love," he instructed, stroking her cheek.

She looked at him deeply, trying to grasp at a fleeting memory, and another word rose from her throat. "T…T...Tyr…" She inhaled. "Tyr…Tyr-i-on…"

"Yes," he whispered, pulling her close as a lump rose in his throat. "It is…Tyrion."

She wrapped her arms around his neck. Then she pulled herself upright, and studied him some more. She touched her chest and then his own. "Are…we…?" Her voice squeaked. She locked her two hands together, trying to show him through signs.

"Part of each other…?"

She nodded, and then held her hands out as if to beg a confirmation.

He remained quiet for a long moment, trying to decide whether to tell her the whole truth or not. "Yes, dear," he confirmed at last. "I am…your husband."

He braced himself for her reaction, which he more than half expected to be disgust or shock. But while she looked slightly mystified for a moment, she did not seem unduly disturbed.

"Am I…a…good wife?"

He chuckled a little, amazed at how _that_ was her main concern. "Far better than I ever deserved."

"Have we…children?"

"Umm…no." She looked slightly concerned, probably considering the possibility of their being something wrong with her, so he quickly added, "We just…never got around to it."

She seemed rather unconvinced. "If I was…barren…you'd have to…get rid of me..."

"That would never happen while breath is in my body."

Now she looked surprised, yet still unsure. "What if…I had only girls? I knew a family once…six sisters, not one brother…"

"Then they'd be our precious, beautiful daughters, just like their mother," he said, and his words trembled with a depth of love and longing.

Sansa's gaze fixated on his eyes.

"I know what you are thinking," he dared to tease. "Any offspring of ours might just have the bad luck of inheriting these dizzying things."

"No, I was just…thinking…your…eyes are… _kind_ …you are… _kind_ …just like father said…you would be."

"Your father said…" His voice trailed off. "Er…what did he say exactly?"

"That he would…find me a husband…who would …love me…and…he did."

Tyrion swallowed. _Oh…oh, she thinks…oh…dear…_

"Your father…was a good man," he whispered, not sure what else to say.

"Like…you," she insisted. "He…would not…have seen us wed…if…not…"

"Oh, San…" His voice cracked, and he pulled her close to him again. He would have given anything to keep her from remembering what he really was, that he was a Lannister, from the same family that had robbed his father of his life for his act of mercy towards them. Back then, he had scorned Eddard Stark as a simpleton, an idiot for honor, who had lost the game by his foolish trust in humanity. But now…holding the man's confused, injured child in his arms, who innocently believed her father had chosen him for his goodness to protect her…he felt burned through with shame.

Then he felt a worse burning…because she kissed him, full on the lips, and he realized how easily innocence of a child might segue into the passion of a woman. Now he was the one who pulled back, not sure how to properly receive it. It was so unlike her to be that forthright. Was she…did she want to…?

She looked downcast over his reaction. "You don't…want…my kiss…?"

"Sweetheart, I…do…very much…" He inhaled. "But aren't you still a bit…disturbed at my…appearance?"

"No," was her answer. "I wouldn't want to kiss…anyone else."

He swallowed back a wave of emotion, and let his lips collide into hers. She squeaked, and he eased into it more gently, cupping her chin with his hand and letting her adjust to the rhythm of love-making. He would not rush her; he wanted this to feel right for her. She responded on instinct, kissing and being kissed without restraint. He caressed her face and neck as they sank back against the blanket together. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and then ran them down his back.

He felt an old familiar sensation run up his spine, his whole body tensed, and cried out for release. She too seemed caught up in the moment; he felt it in her breathing and her pulse, the movement of her body beneath his, waxing and waning like the maiden moon controlling the tides as their mouths moved back and forth in a dance. Oh, he wanted to drown in those tides. He kissed her, up and down her neck, and she moaned. Automatically, his hand went to the top button of her gown…

 _Stop. Stop. She doesn't know what she's doing. She doesn't know who you really are. You could hurt her. Stop. Stop before there is no stopping you…_

He pulled himself back abruptly, with an almost super-human effort. She was breathing hard as she gazed up at him, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. "Did I…do something…not to your…liking?"

"There is nothing you could do that would not be to my liking," he rasped with a shudder. "But…Sansa…" He reached down and laid his hand over her belly, where the knife had pierced her through. She winced. "See, my love? You're not…ready for this."

 _By all the gods…he wasn't even sure if she knew what "this" meant…_

"You must…trust me," he whispered, and kissed her softly on the lips, then on both eyelids, and rolled her against him, with her head tucked under his chin and her body leaning on his brace. "Please…trust me…always," he pleaded, as he drifted off in his arms. He wanted to stay like that, forever and ever and ever. And soon he too succumbed to drowsiness.

His sleep alongside her started out peaceful enough, all wrapped up in a blanket together, with the puppy comfortably snuggling between them to evade the chill autumn air.

Yet one dream rose to the surface of his soul, and forced him to come face to face with the one man who seemed to be axis upon which so much in Tyrion's life now turned. The last time he had seen his countenance had been when his head had been stuck on a pike at King's Landing. Sightless eyes and moldering flesh had still been visible, but all signs of the inner man had long since drained away. Ned Start had just been another pawn, cast off the board and smashed on the floor, with the fragments waiting to be swept away.

But now, in his dream, the Lord of the North was very much alive and seated on a great throne, as the Father sits in the court of the gods, weighing all lives, the short and long, according to their deeds. Tyrion was brought in before him, as at a trial, and with a glance, stern and strong, all the evidence of what he was pressed itself into his very being.

All the lurking shadows of fiendish cunning, all the pleasure and empowerment that tasted of blood, all the twisted grasping for something to satisfy the gaping hunger-wounds, and the stench of inner corpses sacrificed for the glory of the game, all of it broke apart his armor and left him stripped bare of defense. He did not try to make excuses, but waited…waited what had to come…what everyone always told him would be his final "reward"…

Then into the court there came a woman, with a gown that glowed with the blinding beauty of all the stars, and the singular sorrow of the last lights of a fading summer. She was part of his make-believe name day present for Sansa, unseen like the colors of the wind, but coursing silver, translucent like crystal…like water, and the thread of life, the thread of sanity, and all that imparts hope and meaning…

And her presence alone was enough to balance off the just yet merciful measuring rod of Eddard Stark, and the lord upon the throne looked through the littlest lord in the court, and made peace with him. For when the glinting grandeur of his armor in the mind could no longer save Tyrion Lannister, the purity of a childhood fable spun from the thread of twilight for a murdered warrior's daughter did.

And he shifted in his sleep against the flower petals strewn across the blanket, and stroked a silken strand of his lady's hair.


	13. Chapter 12: Siren's Song

**And here we have the chapter we've all been waiting for…well, at least, some of us have I would suppose ;) It doesn't come easily though; there is quite the emotional roller-coaster in this installment, so get prepared for a wild ride! Hope you all enjoy!**

 **P.S. Oh, and in response to comments, if Tyrion seems like he's acting weird at times in his judgment calls and behavior patterns, well…he's been through some emotional trauma recently (well, actually…more like for the entirety of his life!), so we can forgive him for it! As for equality in his relationship with Sansa, while complimentary compatibility was desired in the concept of medieval marriage, perfect equality was typically not to be grasped after. This is especially the case when the husband was almost twice as old as the wife. Hence, if there is a sense of benign "inequality" comes through a bit in places, it's actually more in sync with the era. One thing I will say; Sansa is going to mature a lot in the coming chapters, in keeping with her heritage as a daughter of Eddard Stark.**

Chapter 12: Siren's Song

The journey into the mountains was precarious, as the roads were thin and often ran along steep precipices. But Sauriel was skilled at navigating such places, her many years traveling the world coming to their aid. Upwards they travelled, away from the world of nobles and their petty jurisdictions, and into the region of the independent, self-governing villages, that made do with a simple life, yet one unfettered by the tyrannies below.

Upon reaching the first of the villages, Sauriel ordered two rooms at the nearest inn, one for herself, and the other for Tyrion and Sansa. Given Sansa's state, she believed it would be best for Tyrion to remain close to her and that they both be given some space. This was all the more advisable after Tyrion informed Sauriel of Sansa's rather unexpected attempt at love-making in the back of the wagon and his own refusal to let it go too far for her own sake.

"By all the signs I have seen over these past weeks, she's healing quite well," Sauriel informed him, candidly. "And, as you have observed, in spite of her confusion, she is no longer a child. If your desires are in union, I do not believe there would be any danger in…"

"She doesn't remember what I am," he exhaled.

"She knows you are a mean that loves her. That's a very accurate summary of you, I think."

"She needs to know the rest before I would ever let her commit herself to me in the flesh, and she will remember soon enough. And then she might…" He drew in a shaky breath. "I'm not sure what she might do."

"Whatever her reaction might be upon remembering, it will be just that – a reaction," Sauriel reminded him. "When all the pieces filter back, the whole picture will become clear to her, and all you have gone through together will be restored to her."

He felt a shiver run up his spine. "Will she remember…having her throat slit?"

"It's hard to say. Perhaps to some extent."

He clenched his fists, imagining the horror that such a memory would bring to her, the slow severing flesh and stifled suffocation. An image came to his mind, of her bleeding out over his unconscious body, and he hissed, "They'll be made to pay for every drop of her blood shed."

She looked at him levelly. "I never doubted that would be the case, in this world or another. No crime goes unpunished forever, nor a good deed unrewarded. But are you the one to mete it out for good or ill, little man?"

"I see no other law to accomplish it," he responded. "The nobles have always been free to use their power against the weak in whatever form they see fitting. The only way justice will be served to them is by those who take the mantle of avenger upon their own shoulders. I am not a spiritualist, Sauriel, but a realist. I know what must be done, and I am unafraid of blood."

"Tyrion, going back now would be suicide," she counseled. "They think you are both dead, and by now corpses would be unrecognizable and unclaimable. They have no reason to pursue either of you. Returning for vengeance now would change that."

"I am very deliberate in my craft," he stated darkly. "All those who would have reason to follow would be rendered quite incapable of doing so."

"The chances of your being overwhelmed and captured are at a high percentage whatever way you look at it. And even if you did escape unscathed, do you think Torquil's men would hesitate in alerting your family? They would all have a stake in any bounty taken. Then even the mountain ranges' would not be safe."

"They would not have to know who dealt the blows," he countered.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe Lannister work has a certain…recognizable factor to it," Sauriel hinted, "especially if observed by other Lannisters. Either way, the risks are enormous."

Tyrion grunted. He still seemed determined, but frustrated by the realization that Sauriel's logic was largely unassailable. "Their blood cries out to be drawn by me, and I will know no rest until the deed is done," he declared. "He trapped and murdered a helpless girl…my _wife_ …my _honor_ …"

"Ah, so that's it then," she decided. "I thought honor meant little to you."

He eyed her keenly. "Such a heinous crime can arouse the honor of any man. If I do not have the right to pay back blood for blood, who does?"

"No one," was her simple response.

"Sauriel, don't test me with your trick responses," he growled.

"Oh, be reasonable," she sighed. "Sansa does not need Torquil dead as much as you alive and by her side. At least have the good sense to wait until her memory returns, and you are functional enough to walk without the brace. It took us long enough to get up here, and I certainly won't be helping you get back down to carry out such a scheme."

He shrugged. "The outrage must be paid back by me, whenever I can be sure of succeeding in it. And I am the only one to determine that. Your approval or assistance in the matter is not requested or needed, thank you."

"All I ask is that you determine your course carefully," she cautioned. "Far too much has been regained to throw it all away lightly. Blood for blood has a way of reversing easily enough."

That night, Tyrion returned to their room in the mountain inn with a rather large book in his hands. Sansa was already tucked into bed, but promptly sat up and observed him shuffling towards her. "Look what I found in a village shop," he announced, holding the book up with some small difficulty. It was obviously too heavy for his small physique, but he seemed determined to show off. "It's a book of ballads, and the historical origins of them. This, I think, is something that might suit both our interests. We could read it in turns or…together, if you wanted…?"

His words sentence turned up at the end like a question. He was still as insecure as ever, instinctively anticipating that his kindest intentions might meet with scorn. It had been that way with brutal consistency almost his entire life, and Sansa herself had hammered it home back at King's Landing. But so much had changed between them since then, and now she responded with a smile and a nod, scooting to one side of the bed as if to invite him in.

"Excellent, then let's…do it."

He headed towards her, then stopped short at the edge of the bed, realizing for the first time just how tall it was. He was used to sleeping on a straw mattress and in the back of a wagon, and it now looked just a little daunting. And, unlike his old bed in Westeros, there was no convenient stool.

He cleared his throat. "This, I believe, is going to be one of those interesting moments you may experience as the wife of one who vertically challenged."

He handed the book up to her first, then took several steps back. "Please stand by." He then took a deep breath, marched resolutely towards the bed, and made an awkward effort to jump and clamber up into it. It nearly failed altogether, as he landing half-way on the edge of the mattress, but she grabbed him and pulled him in before he could slide back down.

At first, the look on his face was a mix between relief and embarrassment. Then he burst out laughing, and she soon realized it was perfectly alright to join in. It felt so good having someone to laugh _with_ him instead of _at_ him. "We make a very fine team, don't we?"

She nodded. "I wasn't going to let you miss out on feeling this bed…it's so soft, like a cloud, and the pillows and sheets, oh, they're something out of heaven." She fell against the pillow contentedly, and he laughed.

"Solace for road-weary bones, to be sure." He fell against his own pillow in dramatic imitation, and they both chuckled again. She rolled against him affectionately and started to open the book in front of him.

"Hang on, don't crunch me," he protested. "I need to get in the proper position for this." He sat up a bit and leaned the tome against his brace. "There, that should do the trick. So…shall I begin?"

She nodded happily and leaned against him to get a better look at the first picture.

So again they found themselves enjoying a rather interesting night together, reading through the romantic ballads and their symbolic meanings according to the history and legends of Davneros. Interestingly, Sansa seemed most taken in by the pictures interspersed, like a little child would be, and he would smile at her innocence, and let her lean up against his brace to get a better look at them.

Sometimes Tyrion wondered if perhaps she would scold him in the future for patronizing her like this, for not shaking her out of it and making her act like a proper young lady, as she had always aspired to be. But right now she was liking it, and he was liking it, and bloody hell, after all they'd been through, they deserved to do what felt good for a while, without fear of an after-effect. After all, it was far more harmless than other more mature activities she had shown an interest in recently. Woman or child or whatever she was, she certainly did present him with a constant puzzle. Would she ever be one or the other, or perpetually a mix?

When it became quite late, Tyrion indicated they should probably call it a night, she pleaded for him to read one more ballad, and he indulged her. He would live to regret it, for it told the story of a beast who reigned over a grand castle waiting for love to break an ancient spell. Her face blanched at the sight of the last picture. It was a castle with tall turrets that struck off a latent fuse in her mind. Tyrion immediately knew what it was, even before she said it.

"King's Landing," she murmured.

"Yes, I suppose it does look…like that," he admitted. He looked at her steadily and saw the confusion in her eyes. Thoughts were assailing her all at once, and she knew not how to process them. She squinted at him, and then swallowed strangely.

"No, no, you're not…"

"A Lannister?" he confirmed, reading her thoughts as quickly as they came to her. She winced, and held herself as if a cold wind had just blown in. He felt his saliva dry up and rasped, "Not much of a fairytale, is it? Or maybe it is…maybe…I'm the beast…" He started to put the book down on the end table. His hand trembled and he lost his grip, letting it fall open on the ground, just like all his momentary dreams of happiness.

The sound of the falling book jolted her as well. "You're one of them, you are, and you let me think…all of you let me think…" She clenched her fists, disillusionment giving way to something more volatile "You killed him, my father, put his head on a pike…and my nurse, and mother and brother…and the others, all scattered…"

"Sansa…please listen…"

"The other one who wanted me, he was kind too, and bought me pretty things and said I was his lady, but then he beat me, and killed them all…" She was shaking now, panic seizing her, and her knuckled clutched white against her mouth. "You…you're one of them…you would…hurt me…"

"I would not…"

"You would, you would, you would!" She threw herself on top of him and pounded on his brace with her fists, tears brimming in her eyes. He made an awkward effort to shield himself, then stopped trying, and let her have her way with him. Somehow in the horrific depth of that moment, he could bring himself to excuse himself from the crimes of his family. No, he instead found himself bearing up to accept the punishment due to them, administered by weak, pain-clenched hands that beat his heart into glittering amber dust.

For her part, Sansa could not think, but only feel the rage burning up in her as blurred thoughts coalesced into a vision of cruelty that had blotted out all the fond moments of her childhood, first and second, along with everything she had held dear, even her hopes for a marriage of safety and love.

 _What a fool, what a little fool she was…oh, if only she could stop the thoughts, the horrible thoughts drowning her all at once! Please someone, stop them!_

Then she saw blood trickling onto her hand, and she gasped. She looked up at Tyrion and saw he was biting his lip hard to quell an anguish deeper than any physical pain. Tears were running down his face and his breath was trembling.

 _It made no sense. Not from a Lannister. He should have enjoyed letting the mask slide, having her be shocked and grief-stricken, knowing that she had been trapped like a little bird in his cage. But no…no…he was hurting…and the hurt ran deep…_

Still shaking like a leaf, she yanked up his shirt up and then started fiddling with his brace. He made no movement to stop her, although his whole body tightened, as if he expected she might try to stab a knife through his ribs…and giving her the freedom to do that. Perhaps he was wishing for it to end the misery once and for all.

When she managed to unhook the latch and cause the brace to fall open, she saw the deep impression the wood had made across his chest. It was red and raw, and the area she had been leaning on all night and she just now had been pounding against was actually bleeding.

"I…I made you bleed," she realized, and there was a twinge of regret in her voice. "Why didn't you…tell me…to get off…before, when you were reading to me?"

He sucked in a sob. "Because…you wanted to see the pictures…and…it felt…so good…having you close, like we were…like I was..." He was faltering now, broken like a twig and dangling over an abyss. "Worth…worth something…after all."

She felt an inexplicable pain, something deeper than memory, something that sorrowed her soul. "I didn't… mean…to hurt you…oh, oh, Tyrion, I didn't, I wouldn't hurt you…I'm confused, very confused…but somehow…I still do… _love_ you…" She shivered, the will o' wisps of scattered memories dancing through her mind. "You…you wouldn't hurt me, I don't think…no, now I know you wouldn't…because you…saved me…in the throne room, yes…you did…"

He broke down in a sob at the same time as she did, and they both fell into each other's arms, crying it out together. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and she rubbed her hand over his chest. "You're not…not _theirs_ …you can't be _theirs_ …"

"No, never _theirs_ …only _yours_ …ohh…" He moaned as he felt her kiss the raw line across his chest, wiping away the trickle of blood with her hair. "Oh…my love…"

She curled around his body, and their breaths warmed each other, lips tasting, blood burning, hearts galloping like the wildest journey of the wind. Flutter, and gasp, and again…it was like swimming in the sea, rolling in the deep, and longing to plunge deeper yet…

She guided his hands to her gown, and helped him free her from it. Then his own shirt was stripped away. Nothing was between them now, even the shadow of dreams seemed to merge through the sense of touch. They found the scars of blade and lash on each other, and caressed them and kissed them. They were pouring out of themselves into one another, mixing and mingling like the rivers flowing to the sea, with waves that seemed to rise and fall eternally, exhaling on the sands of time.

Then for a moment, everything stilled, like a river just before going over the falls. "Sansa," he panted. "Hold…hold my hand…squeeze it as hard as you want."

 _Squeezing, squeezing…oh, oh…is this a taste of death? Oh…gods…_

Her breath caught, and a sob was in it, gasping through the throbbing apex of agony wed with ecstasy. She did not know if she wanted it to end or go on forever. She did not know if her lunges or heart would give way. Then she felt herself give way to its mystery, letting it pull her under beneath the reach of the surface. There was music in the act, rapturous as a siren's song, breaking the skin of the water and piercing through the ocean of loving.

 _Up and down. Back and forth. Swimming. Dancing. Movement. Life._

When it was over, she felt Tyrion pull himself up alongside her. "Sansa, are you…alright?"

At first she didn't say anything, because she couldn't find the words to explain all the prickling sensations coursing through her being. She felt emotionally drained and shaken the core by the intensity of the experience. And tears were welling up, she knew not why…

"Sansa, please, please tell me you're alright." He sounded scared now, not sure if something had truly gone wrong. "Did I hurt you…very much?"

She shook her head. "No…I'm…alright, I…" Suddenly the tears rushed down in force. "I'm s...s…sorry, I…I didn't mean…to cry…please don't be…upset…"

"Upset?" he repeated. "Oh, Sansa, my sweet Sansa…"

"They say men hate for their lovers…to cry…"

"Enough," he quieted her, cradling her against him. "Your tears…are natural, they're beautiful." He stroked her cheek tenderly. She sniffled. "Shh, it's alright…it'll be alright." Very gently, he helped her slip back into her nightgown, and continued to hold her softly, comforting her as he used to do at Sauriel's.

"Tyrion," she whispered. "If anyone else in your family had married me, it wouldn't have been like this, would it? They would have…hurt me, especially if…I cried."

He tensed a little. "I…don't want to think about it. Not now."

She snuggled her head against him. "Tyrion," she breathed out. "Thank you for loving me."

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. "Thank you…for letting me…" It was all he could bring himself to say before nestling his face into the softness of her hair and letting his tears fall on it like dew on the morning grass, just as the gray rays of dawn filtered through the frosted glass of window and blessed the silence of their sleep.


	14. Chapter 13: Honeymoon

**At the risk of there being too much fluff in succession already, I'm giving our couple a change to chill out for a little honeymoon. I mean, it *is* about time! ;) We'll be moving back into more plot generated action in the upcoming installment, but for now, just sit back, grab a snack and fuzzy pillow and enjoy! You guys are such a cool audience, and I love every one of you as a special part of my literary life! 3**

Chapter 13: Honeymoon

"You're spoiling her, Tyrion," Sansa chided, observing her husband reclined on a picnic blanket feeding their donuts to the dog.

They were in the midst of enjoying something of an overdue honeymoon, and Tyrion had located a new special place for them. It was in the woods at the side of a mountain lake, where the water was so blue it mirrored the sky and the bottom was so deep it could not be seen by the naked eye.

"Oh, she's enjoying herself," he insisted, as Arya snatched up the second half the donut in his hand and gulped it down hungrily.

Sansa smiled, realizing he was enjoying himself too. "You know, you're going to make her get fat, and I won't be carrying her home for you."

"But dogs should put a little more weight on before winter sets in."

She rolled her eyes. "But she's a lady, and ladies who put on too much weight lose the attentions of their men. You'd probably trade me off if it ever happened to me."

He raised an eyebrow and scanned her fastidiously. "No, I believe I would keep you around," he twitted, "just put you on picnic restrictions. No more pastries for you….ouch!"

He made a too-late effort to shield himself from the handful of fallen leaves she threw at him. "Well, well," he clucked. "So it begins." With that, he flung a leafy handful back at her in return, unleashing a small-scale war, with the dog barking and running around in circles as husband and wife pelted each other with leaves until both fell down in a heap, laughing till their sides hurt.

They were at the edge of the lake now, and she playfully splashed him with the water. He looked a little stunned for a moment, and she wondered if she had accidentally triggered off some unpleasant memory for him.

"I'm sorry…I didn't mean to get you _that_ wet," she apologized.

He quickly shook off whatever thought assailed him and smirked teasingly. "Are you joking? I feel thoroughly refreshed!"

She closed her eyes. "Well, you can do it to me now. Fair is fair."

He smirked, dunked his hand in the water, but only sprinkled her with it lightly.

"That was _it_?" she responded, amazed.

"Aww, you're too pretty to get soaked." Just then, a flock of ducks landed in the water. "Oh, look. This must be a stopping point on their journey south."

"We should give them messages to carry to wherever they go," she suggested. "Likes notes in a bottle."

"I think I'd prefer to give them…donuts."

"Tyrion!"She exhaled in mock exasperation.

"Oh, there's enough to go around," he assured, gesturing to the small feast laid out on the blanket. She had to admit he probably had purchased too many different varieties of donuts. But having consumed more than a few of them herself, from the jellies to the creams to the pretzel-like twists, they were all delicious. The ripe autumn apples and golden and white harvest cheeses were quite nice as well. And of course he made sure to bring along a flask of local brew for them to share.

"You're quite good with animals, you know," she commented, as he tossed some of their food to the ducks.

"Not really," he commented. "Horses absolutely spook around me. Just can't figure me out. And I've already told you about my past stories with dogs, before I figured out how to tame their savage instincts with food stuffs. I did hand-feed a squirrel one time, though, when I six. It let me pet it…felt kind of like velvet."

"I can imagine you doing that."

"You can?" he queried. "Most people would be shocked to know the Imp had engaged in such activities as a child. They'd laugh themselves silly…"

She shook her head. "You have…a sensitive soul. I know that for a fact."

He chortled a little at the description, and then fell solemn for a moment. He wondered if he was indeed sensitive, for he did remember that when he had found the squirrel a day later, shot through with an arrow by one of his father's guards, it had felt like the arrow had been his. Of course, as he grew, he had taught himself to view death and suffering with indifference as it was meted out and returned. But that was training; not heart.

"I'm also a fighter, m'lady," he reminded her. "Low the ground and snarling." He barred his teeth teasingly, and she laughed. Then she tilted her head, contemplating on something.

"Yes, I know you're a fighter, too. How could I forget? Four against one, Tyrion. And those guards were armed to the teeth!"

Ah. So she remembered the melee in Torquil's courtyard. Every day her memory had continued to improve, and now she almost completely restored to her former self. But they had never discussed the events in Caffe.

"Actually, it was four against a half," he quipped.

She rested her chin on her hand. "I must say, you…you did…rather well, under the circumstances. I mean…it was suicidal of you to try, but still…it was rather impressive, all things considered."

Now he made a half grin. She was giving him his pride back. "A shield has always been my favored weapon."

"Is that your motto for life?" she queried.

"I certainly could think of worse ones. I've bashed men's brains out with…" He cleared his throat, realizing that questionable nature of the topic. "Well, suffice to say, I can take care of myself well enough. I was trained to fight in armor, you know, like a real knight." He sounded like a little boy now, trying to impress a girl with his exploits. "You never saw me in full dress armor, did you, Sansa?"

She shook her head.

"Probably for the best," he admitted with a chuckle. "It made me look quite ridiculous. I don't walk very well as it is…always shuffling. With the armor, it made this clanking sound, and it was heavy. It always hurt my back…" He paused. "You won't tell anyone that, will you?"

"Who in the world would I want to tell?"

"Oh, I…I don't know," he shrugged. "Sauriel, for one, would probably never let me live it down."

She exhaled, and put her hand over her heart dramatically. "On my honor as a lady then; it's between us alone." She looked at him gently. "And…I don't mind the way you walk at all."

He turned down, his cheeks reddening. "You're kind." He gazed across the lake wistfully. "I always used to enjoy watching my brother and sister. Jaime took great, manly strides, and Cersei walked with the elegance of a cat. And when they danced…there was something magical about it." He looked up at her. "Did you like to dance very much, Sansa?"

She shrugged. "It was more just a matter of me wanting to be good at everything a young lady should be good at, not really for the fun of it. I spent most of my childhood so eager to grow up I suppose I sort of…neglected that part, while my siblings enjoyed themselves." She smiled a little. "But now that I am grown up, I actually am…having fun. With you. And those other things seem…rather false by comparison."

His eyes brightened. "Really, Sansa?"

"Yes, really," she confirmed.

Looking very happy with himself, he picked up a piece of shale at the lake's edge. "Have you ever skipped rocks?"

She shook her head.

"Well, I can teach you how." He tossed it out, and the shale skimmed across the water.

"Oh, that's brilliant! Let me try." She picked up another piece and attempted to repeat the process, but hers sank as soon as it hit water.

"It's all in the wrist," he instructed her, snatching up another pebble. "You have to flick it like this…damn." He successfully skipped the rock, but then felt his wrist throb.

"What happened?"

"Oh, it's just an old strain," he fluffed it off. "A childhood…accident."

She noted the way he said that, and was dubious. "What sort of 'accident'?"

"I…fell down some stairs." He made an embarrassed half grin. "With help."

She looked down. "What sort of… _help_?"

"I just made a little miscalculation," he confessed. "You see, when I was very young, I still was under the impression I could get Cersei to like me. She was beautiful, even as a little girl, and I thought…my mother would surely have been like her." He exhaled. "I…wanted her to hold me, very badly. I know it was stupid, but…no one else would, so I thought…she _was_ my sister." He saw the pitying look on Sansa's face and began to regret starting the story. But it was too late to stop it. "So, getting to the point, one Yule, when we were going to the main hall, I asked if I could…give her an embrace for Yule. She said…no."

Tyrion decided to withhold what she really said, that he was a malformed disease, a hideous parasite that sickened everything it touched. He decided to withhold the confused tears he had shed when she had assaulted his 4 year old mind with the gruesome details of how he had torn up his mother's insides coming out of her, how the Lady Joanna had screamed for someone to kill her because the pain was so intense.

Shivering, he had instinctively hobbled towards her, his sister's name caught in his throat like a sob…her fur coat looked so soft, he wanted to clutch it for comfort…but it was wrapped around a hardened heart…

"And then she pushed me down some stairs in the courtyard," he finished, trying to sound nonchalant. "I fell on my wrist, and fractured it. Everyone was so busy with Yule, it wasn't properly looked at until afterwards."

And, the fact was, no one had cared. Jaime, his older brother and sole ally, was away for the season to be trained at the court, and he felt hatred fall in on him on all sides. They didn't care that it made it hard for him to hold a fork at the feast; they just laughed at him as he dropped it and had to painfully struggle to retrieve it. Afterwards, they mocked him for eating with his hands. All Tyrion wanted was to stuff his face with the sweets, that helped take his mind off the pain, as drink would do when he came of age. But his father called him an animal that took away his appetite and ordered him away from the table.

"When the physician finally took care of the wrist, it was rather…out of sorts. Of course, my hands are a mess anyway, but…look, I'll show you." He yanked up sleeve and revealed the twisted bone of his wrist. She looked slightly pale at the sight, and he quickly regretted the display. "I'm sorry; that was uncouth of me."

He started to pull down his sleeve, but she stopped him by taking his hand in her own, and gently running her fingers along the jutting bone in his wrist. He smiled a little. "Are you going to cast a spell on it?"

"Maybe." She then tenderly kissed his hand and his wrist, as if trying to heal the memories with her lips. "Feel better?"

He swallowed a lump in his throat, and then took hold of her hand and kissed it, and kept kissing along her arm. She giggled as they both fell backwards in a pile of leaves. "Tyrion, there'll be bits of leaves all in my hair…"

"I'll help you get them out later," he promised.

"But…"

"Later, love…"

He kissed her neck and top of her shoulder exposed in her peasant dress, and she reciprocated by kissing both sides of his slightly crooked nose. She then brushed her fingers all the stubble on his chin, and let her lips playfully mingle with his.

Coming up for air, he smirked mischievously, and touched the front of her dress, softly massaging her breasts beneath the material.

"Naughty, naughty," she scolded him. "You're very naughty, Tyrion."

"But doesn't it feel kind of nice?" he tested her, continuing to rub gently in a circular motion.

"Maybe," she admitted, leaning into him with a laugh. "You're something of an expert at this, aren't you?"

He paused for a moment, a slightly guilty look crossing his eyes. "Actually, this all feels…quite new to me." He pulled her towards him a little more, until her forehead touched his. "I do love you, you know."

"I know."

"Then you don't think…I'm a pervert, because I like it when we touch?"

"Of course not." She smiled a little. "Not any more than men usually are, that is."

"Oh, come, my demure young lady, have I completely failed in my efforts to please you?"

A smile crept across her face and her cheeks grew rosy.

"See, women are not so unlike we men after all! They know about warmth beneath the sheets…or…leaves, in this case."

She clicked her tongue, and they both chuckled. "You clearly have plans for…my _pleasure_ …during the long winter nights, my lord."

"Well, as man and wife, there's no more shame in it, at least." He brushed his thumb over her lips. "I feel so very…right with you, more right than I've ever felt in my life."

"That's because we're part of each other," she reminded him softly. "One flesh…one heart…one soul…now and forever."

His eyes glistened with unshed emotions at her recitation of their marriage vows, and he pulled her into a heart-felt embrace. She squeezed him back, feeling her own heart give a tug of unspoken intensity.

"Sometimes I wonder if I'm living in a dream," he whispered in her ear, "and I'll wake up all alone in hell again, and everything that is beautiful will wash away in blood…"

"That former world is just a dream, a nightmare," she murmured. "This is reality." She ran her fingers through his hair.

"But every so often I hear the voice of blood, and it is strong, and it calls to me…" His voice drifted out.

She gazed at him deeply. "The blood of Torquil?"

He looked surprised. "Did Sauriel tell you?"

"She didn't have to. I can read you quite well myself."

He closed his eyes. "He drained _your_ precious blood, my love…"

"And it was restored unto me. Nothing has been lost."

"But he still… _did it_. Does not justice cry out for me to confront him?"

"You can dedicate yourself to justice wherever you are," she responded. "Live for it instead of dying for it. Love over it instead of hating over it."

Tyrion inhaled as her kiss warmed his lips once again. "I fear I am a creature of both strong love…and hatred…it is equally weighed…"

"Is not love the stronger power?" she put the question to him, the moistness of her mouth seeping into his. "Is it not…all in all…?"

He sank his head back. "I…want it to be…"

"Then let the feuding end," she pleaded. "Oh, Tyrion, we have everything to live for. I want you to hold our first born without the stain of blood on your hands. I am sick to death of death. No more…no more…"

She stretched over to kiss the scar on his face, and he found himself softly massaging the scar on her neck. "Oh, oh…Sansa…I would have died had you not come back to me…"

"But you brought me back," she explained breathlessly. "Your tears…they called me…back to you…he could not take me from you…forever…"

He laid his head against her shoulder, and kissed her neck once more. "I do…want to live," he confessed, "truly, for the first time…oh, yes, there have been many times I did not want to die, but…I never wanted to live…half so much…as at this moment…"

"And so you shall," she assured. "I'm not letting you go, Tyrion, I'm not." And they rolled into each other's arms, hearts like thunder, eyes a-light, and lips nourishing as sweet rain.

The night, grown dark, was still full of splendors. The tiny woodside fire, hastily started, had died away almost entirely, but the honey-colored harvest moon hung high in the sky, gilding the lake with celestial orange flame. They lay together, wrapped in the silent shroud of their forest fortress.

And then he started singing, ever so softly, but also rich with warmth. It was an old song about a nobleman taken prisoner in a far away land and released by the jailor's daughter, and how that same daughter followed him across the sea to be his lover.

"She tells him send her a cut of bread, and tells him send her a cup of wine, and to remember the brave young lady who did release him when he was confined…"

She had never known he could sing before. Perhaps she should have known, given the way his voice often contained a rather whimsical lilt. But in singing now, there was a depth and resonance she had not previously imagined. It was terribly romantic, like when her father had sung to her mother in their tender moments together. She remembered watching them as a little girl, and wanting a husband to sing to her someday.

Never in so many hundreds of years would she have imagined it would be the half-man…who was more fully a man than anyone else had bothered to realize. They never let him sing his heart, only tavern drivel, so they could label him according to their own design. But his heart was hers now, and its song bled into her own.

His voice grew softer and softer yet, like the last breeze that escorts the sun to her resting place at dusk. Then it fell still, like the fallen fog over the lake, and he fell asleep against Sansa's shoulder, breathing peacefully in the crisp autumn air.

She smiled, gazing at him there. For a moment, he almost seemed like a small child. She knew better of course, with his blade-like banter and lusty play. But still, he could be adorable sometimes, with the crumbs of their picnic still on his shirt. She brushed them away with a motherly hand. Someday she'd teach him to eat neat and tidy, but for now…what did it matter?

Then very gingerly she tucked her arm around him, and felt him lean into her a little deeper. He liked to be held like that, she could tell. She wondered if in the depth of his dreaming, he saw his dead mother, who he always hoped might have still found it in her heart to hold him if she had lived to see his face.

Sansa felt a slight pain in her heart, envisioning Cersei shoving him to the ground for seeking an embrace in their childhood. She could imagine his lifetime of tortures for things he had no power to change, and his warped methods of fighting against it that threatened to turn him into the monster his family wanted him to be.

She thought back to her own mother, and the way she used to speak of the Imp who the Lannisters kept closeted away, plotting their devious schemes in dark corridors, altogether devoid of humanity in face and form, heart and soul. Back then, when she had imagined him, she had thought of some creature from a fairytale who stands on a bridge demanding the answer to riddles, lest you be thrown into the chasm of nevermore or be made to stir a cauldron of the black arts for him night and day.

But here they were a world away from everything they had known, and they had become friends, confidantes, helpmates, playmates, lovers. They had spent the day talking and laughing and throwing leaves at each other and feeding ducks and sharing naughty secrets and kisses. And his small, twisted body was wrapped safely in her embrace while he dreamed. He had been hurt so much by so many in his life, and yet he was learning to trust now, and there was an aching loveliness in it.

Because she loved him. It had taken more than a little while for her to come to that conclusion, but now she realized it was the truest thing in her life. He was kind, and clever, and loyal, and rough enough around the edges to know that he was the real thing, not some simpering milk-sop with malicious intent. Even his love-making was a winning mix of honesty, passion, and tenderness. He was far from perfect, but he was perfect for her.

She thought for a moment back to the interval when she had stopped praying to the Seven back at King's Landing. She felt they had failed her, failing to protect those she cared about most, much her own battered body and soul. But now she found herself recalling her lessons about the Smith, the face of the divine who labored to put the world of men to right with hammer and flame. Surely, she thought, for the gods, there should have been an easier way?

But perhaps that was the mystery of it. Putting things to right was never a painless process, nor a predictable one. And yet all things flowed toward it, like snow in the mountains must flow down to water the valley. For all the evil that she and Tyrion had experienced at the hands of others, it had enabled them to find one another. They had been pawns in a game of great names, being used to disgrace and defile one another. And yet their captors had underestimated their souls. They had believed their own lie that Tyrion was a monster and incapable of loving or being loved. And yet she had awakened a whole new word inside him. And now they loved. And they were the true victors of the game.


	15. Chapter 14: Say Hello

**So…this was chapter was actually originally intended to be an "action chapter". However, due to working on too many fics at once (** ** _Star Trek_** **and** ** _Harry Potter_** **are tugging on my heart-strings, plus I've been feeling slightly unnerved as the US presidential elections draw to their spine-tingling, stomach-churning finale!), the action part has sort of been way-laid until the next chapter, and nothing much happens in this one :P Well, not "nothing" but…you'll have to read to find out!**

Chapter 14: Say Hello

Teaching had never been the occupation of choice for Tyrion Lannister. He realized he had the brains to make it work, but temperament was another thing altogether. Yet when he came to know that almost all the children and most of the adults in the village could not even write their own names nor tell their times tables, he recognized a need that would need filling.

And Tyrion was desperate for a job. After all, he felt responsible to provide for the security of not just a young wife but also an old woman who he felt had sacrificed enough for them and really deserved a chance to retire in peace and contentment. Sauriel might be redoubtable, but he sensed that recent events had taken a noticeable toll on her, and her days on the open road had clearly reached their conclusion.

He was determined that she would never have fend herself on her own again. All they had gone through together had bonded them together in a strong, albeit unorthodox, family unit. He and Sansa had lost enough family members one way or another, and he was not about to let the closest thing to a mother they had at this point go off on her own again, even though she did make a point of suggesting it time and again. For Tyrion, loyal sometimes to a fault, it was out of the question.

So after giving it a think, he went off to the magistrate of the village council and told a tall tale about him having been employed as a tutor in the noble houses of Westeros (to which the magistrate interjected that he had never heard of the place) until he driven out by the feuding. The man was agreeable to Tyrion's proposal that a notice be put out advertising Tyrion's offer to tutor in basic reading, writing, and mathematics. He even made him offer of good faith to teach his own children history and geography, since had seen much of the world.

Slowly but surely, villagers who had long been cheated by port town merchants decided that their children had best be equipped to outfox them, and hired Tyrion for the job. Although the pay was minimal, and sometimes turned out to be in the form of a trade for food, he grudgingly accepted that this would have to be his lot, at least for the time being. Before long, he found himself tutoring different students both day and night.

Meanwhile, the women did continue doing their bit for survival's sake. Sauriel had gone back to selling her herbal remedies and charms, while Sansa turned back to an old pastime for the purpose of income: sewing. The wives of the councilmen were rather desperate to imitate the city fashions in their own attire, and Sansa had no mean eye for detail, so her reproductions, even with crude material, were well-done. Whatever the villagers thought about the strange trio, they were fast becoming a fact of life.

The weeks passed and the winds of winter blew away the dead leaves of fall. They had moved into a small cottage at the edge of town, and even though it was drafty and cramped, Sansa felt pleased that it was her own. As a girl, she could imagine how repulsed she would have been at the thought of living in such a humble place, when she had dreamed of grand castles and servants to do her bidding. But she shocked herself by being thankful for what she had after all she had lost and, indeed, even felt joy in her heart to be lady of her own home. Perhaps that was the ultimate sign that she had indeed left her childhood behind.

One night, after a long day of teaching Tyrion found her asleep in her chair, the needlework still in her lap. Swallowing back a twinge of regret that she should have to work late into the night, he kissed her cheek. It felt cold to his lips, but her eyes did flutter open and she smiled at him teasingly.

"What kept you so late? Have you been seducing the mountain nymphs by moonlight?"

"I'm afraid not," he exhaled. "Just grading papers for ink-stained little urchins on a cheese farm. My night life has altogether run down the sewerage. "

She pecked him on the cheek. "Oh, come, altogether?"

"Alright, well, maybe there's a residue of my old self left…"

He craned towards her a little, and she pulled back, playing hard-to-get.

"I don't think you dislike children half as much as you carry on about. In fact, I think you could get to be fond of them if you tried."

"You'll have to teach me how to try someday." He fondled her hand in her lap and was again struck by the coldness of it. "Sansa, you shouldn't be up without the fire lit. You'll catch your death of cold."

"But I had this piece to finish for the councilman's wife," she protested. "It's due tomorrow. Besides…I have something to tell you…"

"In bed," he coaxed her, taking her hand and pulling her up. "Gods, you're like ice."

"Oh, you're really exaggerating…"

"Never you mind." He tugged her towards their small bedroom. "Get under those blankets."

She did as she was told, and waited for him to climb in next to her. He had a stool set up now, so no further acrobatics were necessary to achieve this. She laughed as she felt him pull her against him and star to kiss her neck.

"Stop, that tickles!" she protested.

"Good for circulation," he insisted, then reached his arms around her waist amorously.

"Careful…careful, not too tight."

"Since when have you become so sensitive? This one thought has been keeping me going through hours of cheese farm mathematics…"

"Now settle down, will you? Didn't I say I had to tell you something? How can I talk with you carrying on so?"

He exhaled, like the wind had just been taken out of his sails, and slumped down next to her, keeping his hands to himself. "My lady, you have quite undone me."

"Oh, you'll manage somehow, I'm sure," she twitted. "Now shall I tell you my news?"

"This better be good," he pouted in mock-despair.

She smiled mischievously, took his hand, and placed it over her belly. "Say hello, Tyrion."

He looked perplexed. "I don't believe I…" Then his face blanched. "Sansa…are you…?"

She giggled. "My dear little husband, don't look so surprised. You were involved, you know."

"Oh…"His heart rose in his throat, and now he truly did feel undone. "Oh, Sansa…"

A thousand conflicting thoughts and feelings assailed him. Then a flashback washed over him of the last time a woman had claimed to be carrying his child, insisting that he buy her the tonic to wash the little beast out of her lest it come wriggling out of her a living, twisted mess, like he was. There had been no way anyone in the brothel could have known for certain whether he was really the father or not, with so many men coming and going, and he had been annoyed at being singled out as the guilty party. But he was a Lannister, and the hussy had decided he could afford the inconvenience. Perhaps this was yet another sick debt he had had to pay for his name's sake…?

"Tyrion, what's wrong?" Sansa inquired, sensing his distress.

He shook himself from his daze. "I feel…so unworthy to father… _your_ child," he confessed.

"Now enough of that," she chided him.

"But you don't…know everything." He bit his lip.

She inched closer to him. "Then tell me."

He grimaced, wishing he could put it off. Even all she had been through, she still had a certain naiveté which made him fearful of her reaction to what he was about to relate. "You know all about my past escapades with…harlots," he started. "But I was not…Joffrey. I did not mistreat their bodies. I got my money's worth, but I also tried to pleasure them as much as they did me. And I didn't over-tax any one of them, nor would I take any who looked too terribly frightened or disgusted at the thought of bedding a dwarf. And I never cheated them of their pay. Sometimes I'd even buy them presents…"

He twitched hearing his own words and realizing how ridiculous he sounded trying to make some sort of perverse case for "ethical" whoring. "I'm sorry…I shouldn't be saying these things to you. But I just didn't want you to think..."

"I never thought it," she assured. "It's not in your nature to derive pleasure from inflicting pain on others."

 _Except, sometimes, when extracting revenge_ , he thought, but decided not to say it. He wanted to change. He wanted to conquer his demons for her sake. But he had to tell her…the rest.

"There's more, dear. I never told you…how when one of them would fall pregnant, as happened every so often when their herbs would fail them, and they thought I was the culprit, I would…"

He grimaced, remembering how after that last bottle of tonic had been drained, his eyes had met that whore's eyes, just for a moment, and he had seen a flicker of some wordless emotion cross them. But she had desperate to avoid seeming weak and quickly muttered that even that little bit should be enough to finish off a dwarf's bastard. He responded by making some crude joke about poisoning a bitch's pup. But that night, and many nights after, he had pitied her silent pain that mirrored his own and wondered what it had been like for the child – whether his or another's, it mattered not anymore – to drown in the darkness of its mother's womb.

"I helped to…get rid of them. I bought them what was needed to flush them out." He paused, waiting for her to respond. When she did not, he continued awkwardly, "Sometimes I wonder what they would have been like…I wonder if they would have been clever or good-looking…" He felt a sick twinge and covered his face. "I don't even know if they were sons or daughters, or if they were mine at all. There was no question of them being carried to term; they were dead as soon as they came into life. But I see now…they were just as real as yours is now, just as needy, just as much…deserving to be born. If my own lust brought them into the world, with no hope of protecting them, using women like toys with no thought of the consequences on them, then I am doubly responsible for…"

He felt Sansa's arm link through his. "You have changed, Tyrion. You have changed so much, and for the better. And I think they would…understand," she whispered. "And they would want you to move on, and to learn to love anew."

He gazed at her belly wistfully. "What if…what if your baby is…scared of me?" There was such a pathetic sincerity in that question, Sansa's heart felt broken at the core.

" _Our_ baby, Tyrion," she corrected him, running the back of her hand along his cheek. "Our baby will love you, because he will be a part of your own self, and you will be the kindest of fathers, as you are the kindest of husbands."

He shuddered. "What if the child…comes out like…?"

She leaned him against her, with his head on her shoulder. "Do you really think it would make any difference?"

"But you don't deserve…and ugly, twisted child…"  
"Any child born of our love will be more than beautiful in our eyes, whether or not its bones are straight." She let her lips gently touch his. "And every day we will let our little one know just _how_ beautiful."

"Oh, Sansa…" He shut his eyes tight, unnerved at the coolness of her lips, even though they burned with the warmest intent. "Please, please don't get sick. Don't lose your strength…"

"Hush," she quieted him, as if he were a little child. "I'll be alright, I promise. I'm staying with you for the rest of your days, like it or not." Her heart was bearing down on his heart, breasts pressed against each other, swelling tight. "Hold me, Tyrion. Hold me..."

Slowly, gingerly, he curled his arm around her waist again. He was chastened now and very, very careful lest a wrong move from him might cause her injury, and regretted being over-eager earlier on. He let his other hand move lightly over her belly, thinking about this spark of his own life mingling with her own, like the marriage of flames or the crossing of stars, and how it had taken root, and was growling now like a sapling. It scared him, and awed him, and he found himself whispering awkwardly, "Hello, baby."

 _What a strange thing, a strange, terrible, wonderful thing!_ He was holding her and their tiny offspring together, rocking them slightly, softly, soothingly against him, almost like a cradle, and wanting more than all the world to give them every comfort, every security, and knowing with an ache that he could not, not at this time, in this place. He rubbed his hand along her back. "I wish there was more of me so I could keep you properly warm."

"I'm warm, Tyrion," she assured, nuzzling against him.

"You should be in a castle, with a great blazing hearth and a soft bed and servants to care for you…not working your fingers raw in a freezing hut…"

"In the castles we came from, they'd use my child as a pawn on their chess board, and speak of my body as a thing with no feeling, which would either prove my success or failure according to what it produced," she responded.

"I…I would never have treated you like that, even back at the castle."

"Of course not," she exhaled. "But you would have been able to stop them from having their way with me in the end. Here we are free. It is a hard freedom, but…dearer than every finery to me." She smiled. "What shall be his name?"

Tyrion swallowed, realizing that some things about Sansa had not changed from her childhood. She was still bubbling with excitement at the concept of motherhood. It was the beauty of innocence she had even brought to their love-making. She had grown out of being a prude, and learned to tease with her husband about their intimacy. But there was no hint of cynicism about it; the act to her was just love demonstrated in another way. And Tyrion had found that his own inner defenses, separating pleasure from meaning, had crumbled. Now it was bringing forth life in its natural course, not out of duty, but from love.

"It could be a 'her', you know," he proposed.

"No, it runs in my family that first-borns are male," she stated. "So what shall we name him then?"

He pondered for a moment and then responded definitively, "Ned." He turned to meet her eyes, moistening at his choice, and queried, "And if your prediction is all wrong, and the Stark genes go awry, and it's a little girl?"

Before she could answer, she cupped his chin with her hand and warmed his mouth with her own. It was a deep kiss this time, and they clung to it for a long, long moment. When they were finally done, she exhaled, "Joanna."


	16. Chapter 15: Lion and Wolf

**Hey, Everyone!**

 **I'm SOOOOOOOOO sorry for taking so long to update this story! There's been a lot going on with my freelancing gigs, my new YouTube channel (linked back to on my account!), recovering from presidential elections, and getting onto a Harry Potter fan-fiction binge (p.s. please feel free to check out "Snake and Shadows" and "Harry Potter and the Road Trip to Remember" on my account here!). But thankfully, I have at least managed to knock out another chapter, and shall hopefully return to more regular updates! Sorry if this one feels a bit rushed...had to kind of get myself out of writer's block, so hopefully its not too jerky feeling!**

Chapter 15: Lion and Wolf

The mountain villages were without a lord, and yet they did have a castle which an elderly man of noble lineage called home. He styled himself Lord Tibolt Maelfaes of House Thurandin, but lived as an eccentric hermit in his dilapidated stronghold, and his presence would have been altogether forgotten if not for his young squire who came to market to purchase necessities.

The House of Thurandin had always been a minor house, even when their power over the villages was strong, but since the village councils had secured charters to manage their own affairs, they had faded into even thicker obscurity. However, it still was a legends, and legends wield a strange power of their own that no time can kill.

So when the squire approached Tyrion at the home of the village magistrate seeking to employ him, rumors flew quickly through the streets. Everyone in the area had heard by now of the educated dwarf who was selling his services for sustenance, but the idea that Thurandin would want to take on such a man, and even offer him and his family to opportunity to stay on in quarters at the castle, mystified them. It mystified Tyrion just as much, but at the very least, he figured it was a chance to get Sansa out of the drafty hut and into some more appropriate surroundings for a woman in her condition.

Arriving at the castle, Tyrion discovered that the lord did not intend to show himself, but he was instead escorted by the squire into a huge room that made his eyes bulge. It was brimming with books of every variety, and he was informed that it was the lord's desire to have them all properly categorized and archived, as they were in no particular order. He was further told that this was only one room, and that there were crates of documents also in need of sorting and sifting through. It was not a one-man job, and Tyrion knew it. But he dare not say anything to that effect. He needed this sort of work. Sansa and Sauriel needed this place. And the little one coming needed it. He had no choice.

A week after moving in, Sansa entered the library late at night to relocate her overworked husband and stared in amazement at how many piles of books there were all over the floor, some large and some small. It was clearly Tyrion's attempt to create some rational order through categorization, but it just looked jumbled and overwhelming at first sight…and the organizer himself was nowhere to be seen. "Tyrion, where are you?" she whispered.

"Here…here…" came a tired sounding voice from behind one of the larger piles near a shelf.

She walked around to find him slumped down against it with a giant volume open in his lap and a chart on which he was scratching notes with a worn looking feather pen.

"What _is_ that?" she queried, as if the book were some monster from the deep.

"It's about…tax revenues imposed upon the exportation of…goat cheese," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "Exhilarating material."

"I do hope he has some more stimulating subject matter in his collection than that," she stated, gesturing around the room.

"Believe me, every subject that could possibly find its way into a book or ledger…is here." He rolled his eyes. "All in need of archiving or updating. Isn't it a dream?"

"Well, if anyone can make sense out of it, you can," Sansa encouraged him. "You have a mind for such things, you always have."

He smirked. "I'm afraid my armor in there is wearing a little thin. Seriously, these ledgers are near prehistoric. The taxation ones count for next to nothing at this point, but the household expenses…by the gods! His affairs are utterly bled dry…"

"Do you think that's why he wanted you in his service? To restore the castle to working order, and rise himself up in the world again?"

He snorted. "I don't believe that eccentric old wind-bag wants to rise to anything. He seems to have some vague concept about preserving this mess for his posterity…which, of course, is non-existent. So…in essence, all this is a purposeless trundle for the purpose of living between castle walls again. Truly…thrilling."

Sansa let her eyes drift to the floor. "I'm sorry, Tyrion. You deserve…better than this." He deserved to be master of his own castle and his own affairs, wielding the power he was accustomed to on the grand stage. As hateful as it was, he had a talent for the game-playing, and Sansa knew in her heart he missed the thrill of having something substantial to bite into.

Noticing the look of partial guilt on her face, Tyrion staggered to his feet, went over to her side, and squeezed her hand. "I deserve… _nothing_. But the gods gave you back to me anyway. They will never find cause in me to complain over anything ever again."

"Even if we wind up living in the shadows until we're old and gray?"

"What shadows?" he challenged. "You're my candle, Sansa. Wherever you are, the shadows have no place. And growing old together is the only way I would ever want to face the passing years. It's the only way they would mean anything to me at all."

"Even if at the end of it all we both should die uneventfully in bed, without fame or fortune?"

 _Oh, she guessed out his inner thoughts too well._ She knew the old drive that gnawed at him, for the roll of the dice in his blood, and the pleasure it had brought him. For his name bandied about on gossiping tongues that had to admit that he played his part like a true Lannister. But it was a poisoning sort of pleasure, and a man could grow sick to death of it, even if the flavor pleased his pallet.

He imagined his death in years to come, and the ability to close his eyes to the world knowing that his wife and children and perhaps grandchildren were safe and at peace, and that whatever small garden they were planted in would be made beautiful and nourishing because them. And then he imagined, in one garish moment, all that once constituted his pulse-pounding life of fire and ice, of a crown laced with lies worth a harlot's bed, and soulless songs of the spindle's prick and the fall that had no meaning. And he knew, all over again, what he truly wanted. And it was not that, regardless of its scintillating splendor that burned hearts black.

He held his high, satisfied and set in his course, and responded, "Being in bed with you is never uneventful, m'lady."

She blushed at his words. "Then do you plan on sharing one with me tonight?"

"Sansa, I have so much work…"

"And you must build up your strength to accomplish it all," she finished. "You need to take a rest, or else you will burn yourself out all at once and be unable to dig your way out of all this. Besides…your wife misses you."

"Alright then," he relented. "But first, I've got to shave."

"Tyrion, you're exhausted. Let it go for tonight."

"If I'm going to finally share a bed with a woman again, I want to be…fit for it."

She raised an eyebrow. "Knight of the Flowers?"

"No, just a humble clerk with ink under his fingernails who wants his wife to sleep with him at his best…whatever that may be."

"You're far too proud to be humble," she teased.

"My fatal flaw, assuredly."

"That's because you're a noble." She leaned over and tapped him on the chest indicatively. "Nothing can drain that out of you. It's all bottled up in there, where it counts."

"And you'll never stop being a princess," he responded softly. "No…a queen."

She smiled. "So will you allow the queen to help you shave?"

"That's a very precarious job," he said, pointing to his scarred cheek.

"Exactly why you need royal assistance," she stated. "You're look about to fall down on the floor you're so tired."

He bowed his head slightly in concession. "If your highness commands, I must obey."

"Yes, you must."

She took him by the hand and guided him out of the library. When they reached their quarters down the corridor, Sansa went over to the end table next to their bed and started to pour water into a basin and lather up some soap. "You'll have to show me where you hide your razors."

"I don't hide them," he retorted. "I just…keep them in a safe place."

She rolled her eyes knowingly. "This castle life is putting you back on edge, there's no denying it."

He shrugged. He had to admit that he had always been wary of leaving sharp objects around back at King's Landing, and this place did remind him strikingly of his old unnerving surroundings. But he decided to end the suspense for Sansa quickly.

"Lest you inaugurate a treasure hunt, they're in the back of compartment in the writing desk."

Sansa went and retrieved them, then ushered him over to the side of the bed. "I'm going to sit here, and you're going to stand in front of me, like this…"

"And then you'll carve me up for supper."

"Hush, hush," she quieted him. "Have a little more faith."

He observed her warily as she began to apply the lather and get out the razor. "I'm not ready to be diced up," he complained, dryly. "I must go on living to finish that goat cheese ledger."

She clicked her tongue. "You are really making me think I should put you out of your misery, my love."

"Cold, unfeeling woman," he defined her dramatically. "You northerners can be terrifying."

She chuckled as she worked around his scar. "I shan't but nick you a little."

"Thank you for the assurance. My confidence is restored in womankind. I may yet live to read another day."

"So you shall read all of those books," she predicted, "and then start plans to wrest control of the castle?"

"But of course, m'lady," he twitted, "and together we shall rule over ever so many cows and goats and chickens on dairy farms…"

"And have our own mountain dragon," she added, "to guard all our books!"

"I doubt anyone up here would even have the wherewithal to go after books like that," Tyrion sighed. "I'm afraid we live in a scenic vale of literary ignorance."

"I suppose it's not the people's fault," Sansa pardoned them, moving the razor to the other side of his face. "It's the same almost everywhere. There are those who have much, like Thurandin, and share very little for fear of losing their exclusive privilege."

Tyrion blinked. "Enter Twyin Lannister. That he let me have access to books at all when I was young was a miracle."

"Or even worse…enter Joffrey." Sansa paused in her shaving for a moment and shuddered. "And no one can do a blessed thing about it, for all the power is solely held by the iron grip of a mad man."

Her words caused Tyrion to latch onto a fleeting thought from days gone by, a thought that had sustained him through many hard years. "But knowledge is power. And one cannot own knowledge, can they? Not like any tangible thing. It defies being held too tightly, like a fist grasping water. It's fluid, it's alive, it travels…if only the instruments are available to convey it. And once it flies from the bottle, no one can shut it back in again." He squinted, his mind running like the wind on the mountain. "Imagine…a goat herder's son could become as learned as a lord's, if his mind was as keen and books were at his finger-tips. If they both had access to the same knowledge, which would wield the greater power?

"Neither," answered Sansa, somewhat amazed by her husband's train of thought. "They would become…equals."

"Yes! And then the law would inevitably come to recognize them as such," he concluded, "and all the Twyins and Joffreys in the world would meet their overthrow, not by poison or dagger, but by pen and parchment. They would no longer be able to terrorize their victims as they do, people like us, Sansa…and the suppressed of the world would be able to free themselves with their own minds. The ever-turning wheel would then truly be broken." Excitement sparkled in his eyes, then a submission to reality. He laughed shortly. "That was a long-winded tangent, wasn't it?"

Sansa wiped away the last residue of lather from his face with a towel, put her hand beneath his chin, and turned his face towards her. "That was no tangent. That was Tyrion Lannister starting to scheme."

"Me? Scheming? My lady!" he exclaimed in mock innocence.

She kissed him briefly on the now clean-shaven cheek. "And more power to you for it."

He grinned broadly. "Are we planning on vengeance again, against those who have wronged us?"

"Why not? I think we had a certain talent for it…"

"You mean 'sheep shift'?"

They both burst out laughing at the memory. "No, no, I'm all grown up now, and really quite ambitious about this…"

"Please," he whispered, touching her lips, "don't be _too_ grown up."

She smiled sweetly. "I'm ambitious about helping with whatever scheme you decide to launch."

"And by that I am truly heartened. None can stop the joint force of lion and wolf!" He gazed down at her expanding belly. "I wonder what you get when you cross a cat and a dog…a kitten that barks or a pup that mews."

"It'll be a little angel," Sansa murmured.

"Or a little monster."

"Tyrion!"

"Alright, we'll compromise," he decided, with a teasing gleam in his eyes. "An angel…that schemes?"

"Naturally," she beamed.


	17. Chapter 16: Swinging from a Limb

**Okay, crew, so we're getting back into the "dark material" area of this story. This contains some pretty heavy subject matter as things take a tragic turn for our favorite pairing. But in case I haven't made it clear enough in the past, there is always light on the horizon in this story, but through the ups and downs, I seek to be reflective of real life. So I hope you enjoy (if that's the right word) this update, and please stay tuned for more! As always, you guys rock, and totally make my job as a writer worthwhile!**

Chapter 16: Swinging from a Limb

The winter months passed, and the security of the castle was welcome as the winds blasted against the stone as if in a futile fury. Tyrion continued to catalog the library of his unseen employer, who was said to spend most of his time in the dungeon, experimenting with various substances in hopes of finding the key to reversing age…and even death. Clearly a typical eccentric. Hearty Sauriel joked that she could show him a thing or two, and Sansa and Tyrion enjoyed a good laugh.

The three of them still took pleasure in sharing their meals together on the floor on the castle which they occupied, not far from the library where Tyrion spent most of his waking hours. They talked like any family would, fed the dog under the table, and hypothesized as to why their host had become a recluse. Tyrion insisted it was a simple matter of lost prestige, but Sansa was sure it had to do with an affair of the heart. Sauriel vaguely surmised it had something to do with looking for all the right answers in the wrong places.

Whatever the truth was, the library was clearly assembled by a brilliant yet scattered brain. After several months at it, Sansa started to help Tyrion with the organizing and cataloging. Although he had first quite opposed the idea, and they had quite a spat over it that involved some mutually childish shouting and pouting that lasted for several days at a time, Tyrion came to realize that his young wife was far more intellectually astute than he had previously given her credit for, and the work actually seemed to provide her with some level of satisfaction.

Once he let down his unreasoning masculine sense of superiority, he came to realize that he and Sansa worked quite well together, and he grew pleasantly accustomed to her presence on the job. She was no longer a threat to his ability to provide for her, but became very truly a partner in the task at hand. He had long since known that his relationship with Sansa was unique, and could be nothing less in their circumstances and after all they had been through.

But the more time he spent around her, and the more sides he saw of her, he realized that her own process of maturing had matured him as well. That they were doing so together, connected through a deeper friendship than Tyrion ever thought he would share with anyone, laid a more stable foundation on which to prepare for parenting.

Spring eventually came, and with it the desire to leave the fortress and better explore their surroundings. Outside, in what formerly must have served as the castle gardens, the landscape appeared trapped in time and in a state of disrepair. There were various patches of earth that had once surely been meant for flowers, trees that desperately needed pruning, and a tangled lawn overgrown with weeds.

Sansa thought they should ask permission to start growing their own food for the household, which Tyrion agreed would be a rational course, especially given Lord Tibolt's ill-managed financial situation. But the thing that caught her attention even more was a swing suspended from one of the trees. With a girlish enthusiasm, she rushed over and hopped onto it, causing Tyrion to feel a mix of amusement and concern.

"Easy now," he chided her. "You are carrying an extra load in there."

She smiled down at her belly. "The baby will like to swing. It's like rocking…oh, Tyrion, do swing me!"

He exhaled and indulgently did as she requested. There were so many things he wanted to lavish her with that he could have a hundred times over at King's Landing: fine clothes, glittering jewelry, satin sheets, and gourmet food. That is what he was accustomed to giving women to earn some small semblance of favor, and back before their exile, and their love, it is what he had hoped might win some sign of contentment from her. He would have seized upon anything in the depths of his guilt, any show of willingness to overlook that he was in favor of what he could give her, but had only received icy courtesies in response. But now that they had very little, they loved much, and as he pushed her on that swing, he basked in the sun of her smile, and the unfeigned familiarity between then.

Spring warmed into summer, and the lord of the castle, via his squire, started to turn over the financial books to Tyrion in hopes of him having the ability to put the household accounts in some degree of order. He was fascinated to discover that Tibolt did indeed have have a fair sum worth of inheritance, but it was mostly hoarded away in gold troves to gather dust, or else melted down for one of the castleman's many experiments in down in the dungeon.

Now it was just a matter of taking what was at hand and using it to turn a ghostly seat of former glory into a functioning, if none-too-extravagant, gentry manor. Tyrion was tempted to refuse to do anything further until he was given some form of official title to wield the needed authority to accomplish the task, and further was given the immediate "privilege" of meeting his lordship face to face. But of course he didn't. He couldn't, not with Sansa's time drawing close at hand.

As the months passed, his wife had become more weak and sickly as a result of her pregnancy, and spent much of her time confined to bed. She hardly ever came to the library anymore, and oftentimes did not even come to dinner. Tyrion felt distracted and lonely, trying hard to conceal the nervous tension gnawing at him. He hated seeing her ill, especially since he noticed a strain of listless melancholy in her eyes.

Her moods began to fluctuate in a way that revealed her own anxiety and depression, which as a result made his own moods swing from side to side. He wanted to be there for her, and yet she often preferred the quiet to his company. He was unused to this, and secretly it hurt him. Sauriel, always the sensible one, said it was natural for a young girl carrying her first child, and that he should stop moping like a little boy who had lost his playmate and just give her space.

He obliged, even taking to sleeping in an adjacent room on a cot when she was feeling particularly poorly and needed time alone. After all, he had been involved in creating the cause of her ailment and didn't want to impose himself on her. However, every morning, before the sun could be seen and before Sansa awoke, he would leave a piece of rosemary bread, a glass of milk, and a jasmine flower that grew among the tangled ivy along the castle walls. And when she saw them there, these tokens of faithfulness, she never failed to smile even through her illness.

That Tyrion had grown accustomed to more regular sexual activity was a given, and that he missed it was a surety, but what might have driven him mad back in Westeros had a much more muted effect here. Here, it was a part of the whole that made up his life…but not the whole, and it could be more easily subjected for the good of the whole through abstinence. He had lain with so many women in his past, and had used them flagrantly as a proof of his manhood that was always in question. But now he had lost his urge to let desire dictate what it meant to be a man. He had found that path of conquest diverged from the path of love.

But Sansa was finding herself walking down a strange path of her own, and one cloudy day, she found that it led outside to the uncut lawns and unpruned trees. It had been the first day she had ventured out in weeks, and she knew she probably shouldn't without letting anyone know where she was. She was still very weak, and her entire body felt weighed down. But some hazy dream had set her forth, and some primal gnawing led her on.

 _Father._

 _She had seen his face in the night._

 _His handsome face, his strong arms, holding her._

 _Was it some memory of Winterfell…or of her journey through the halls of the death?_

A wind rustled along the grass, causing a wave of lighter and deeper greens to ripple along the ground. It was the portent of a summer storm; she saw the storm clouds filling the breast of the sky, like lunges filling with air. The world was inhaling, the trees whispering…and the swing was swinging, beckoning her.

 _Come, child._

 _The trees hold the spirits of those gone by._

 _Come and talk to them._

 _See faces etched in the gnarled bark._

 _Find your bloodlines in the leafy veins._

 _Come…_

So she came, and eased herself onto the swing. Her fists were tight around the ropes, her knuckles turning white. And the wind blew back her long auburn hair, like a swirl of sunlight tinged with blood. She had suggested cutting it shorter back in the spring, for such length was meant for virgins, and she was no more a maid. But Tyrion had said he loved her hair, and that he did not wish their love to be the death of her crowning beauty. But now it seemed to her to be a messenger of the otherworld, swirling around her.

 _The trees are calling…_

 _Hear them?_

 _They have many tongues_

 _All singing, in old voices…_

 _Your kin is with you always_

 _The heart of the past in the wood_

 _What did she find herself doing, reaching out to touch the highest limb, and run her fingers along it till they became one with the wood, one with the swallowing song…_

 _I am a lady, calling you_

 _I am lady of these trees_

 _This is my portal, my circular chasm_

 _I am just a girl…come…play with me…_

Was she trying to stand…stand on the swing? Catch the hand of a girl who was calling, calling through the trees, and then falling, falling…onto the ground.

And as Sansa fell, everything else was swallowed up in the growl of the thunder the rain washing through her hair cascading on the ground.

When Sansa returned to consciousness, she was back indoors, picking up the sound of the wind and rain striking the walls, and broken fragments of a hushed argument outside.

"….the old wound from Torquil…"

"…how much blood…"

"…stabilized…"

"….labor could kill…"

"….cannot say…"

"…mustn't go through with it…"

"…you can't…"

"…yes, yes! I can…"

 _She knew…it had to be Sauriel and Tyrion…oh…_

In a panic, she sat up and saw bloodied towels around her in the bed. She touched her belly. Had she failed? Had she killed her own child?! She was nearly crying in terror at the thought, but then was overcome with a wave of relief. She knew somehow, in that deepest form of motherly intuition, that another life still flickered within her. _Thank the gods…_ but her belly was still wrapped round with bloody bandages, and she was shaking like a leaf in the storm.

Then Tyrion came in, and he looked as if all the life had been drained from him. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. His criss-cross eyes looked set in stone, and for the first time in a long time, they frightened her.

"What…did you do?" he demanded hoarsely.

"I…just wanted to go out…"

"Not good enough!" His tone was razor-like in pain.

She shut her eyes tight. "The trees were calling me," she whispered.

"You were having delusions! You should not have gone out in such a state!"

She opened her eyes again, and they were glistening with a strange, far-away look. "There was a girl…or a ghost of a girl…she told me to take her hand…"

Tyrion exhaled, almost in defeat, realizing in what a confused state she was in. But he had little patience for it, for his mind was tortured by what he had to tell her. "Sansa…you've injured yourself…badly. You reopened the wound from Torquil's courtyard."

"But the child still lives," she whispered, killing Tyrion with the hope in her voice, and the way she touched her belly. "I know he does…"

"You must terminate the pregnancy," he blurted.

Sansa just stared at him, as if he had become a stranger to her.

"You cannot…live through it…otherwise," he continued haltingly. "You must…end it."

"No," she rasped.

"You must," he choked, "or you will die."

"No, no…you can't…it's too far along anyway…you can't…it can't be done…"

"There are ways of doing it, and it _must_ be so."

"No!" She jerked herself up, all her defense mechanisms striking off at once. "I won't let you kill our child!"

"And I won't this part of me kill you!" he shouted back, the pain breaking his voice. "Not again…never again…" He pressed his hand over his eyes, wishing his mother had listened to the physicians when they forewarned her the labor might be too hard for her to withstand, might have ended him then before he could do her harm…

"No, I will not." Her voice was shaking, but with a frightening resolve. "I will not do it, no matter what you say. No…it's our child…"

Tyrion looked at her, a desperate look creeping into his eyes. Even she knew he couldn't physically force her to do it, but surely…surely she would do it…she did not want to die again, did she? She would not…leave him again? No, surely…

"Sansa." He breathed her name, trying so hard to soften his voice so as not to add to the fear blazing in her eyes. "If you love me…at all… _please_."

She looked at him for a long, long time. Then, to his shock, and utmost pain, she slowly shook her head.

He recoiled in hurt and anger. "Then I shall have no more to do with you, and you shall die with my contempt! You will cause me to suffer it again, you will not…"

He saw her eyes welling up with tears, pulling at his heart, but he would not allow it to pull him under. He could not go through it again, he could not…not if she loved him so little, after all they had done, after all he had tried…no, no, no….

"Tyr…Tyr…" She whispered, but he had already turned his back to her and stormed out of the room and shut the door behind him. He was too far away to hear as she sobbed out her heart against the pillow, and held her belly so her baby would not feel the pain.


	18. Chapter 17: Hanging by a Thread

**Alright, everyone, so here is the update on Sansa's condition, fresh off the presses. There is some glimmer of hope offered here, but don't be fooled, we're still decidedly in the tunnel for the time being. At any rate, this one does leave on another cliff-hanger, but I shall do my utmost to have the next chapter out to you in a timely manner...possibly even before Christmas if I am able. At any rate, may you all have a blessed holiday season, and I hope you enjoy the following!**

Chapter 17: Hanging by a Thread

Over the course of the next month, Tyrion felt as if he had been turned inside out. His entire purpose for living and working drained out of him, and all his former joys evaporated into the residue of bitter, brooding thoughts.

 _How could she do this to him?_ Time after time he had tried to love her and put her interests before his, and had been either rejected through choice or circumstance. If she truly loved him, surely she would be willing to do anything to spare him more pain, particularly the pain of losing her and having to live with being the indirect cause of that loss.

He was demanding nothing less than what he would have been willing to do if the situation was reversed. All he asked was that she stay alive…that she not throw away their lives together on behalf of a thing he could not even think of as human anymore. It was just a parasite from his body, feeding off of hers. It was going to kill her…just as he, as a pre-born parasite, had killed his own mother. How could he endure the torture of emotionally engaging in such a tragedy, grounded in Sansa's stupid refusal to temporarily sacrifice her dream of motherhood?

So he stayed away from her, trying to blot her out of his mind altogether. Sauriel was taking care of her, he knew, and he would continue to work to keep a roof over her head, as was his duty. But all at once, he felt the need to bury that very deep love that grown between them as husband and wife. He would bury it as deep as the hole to receive her coffin, or else pull it out by the roots with one maddened thrust. He had grown sensitive, and dreaded the sting of the thorns wrapping around his heart again. Better to tear the vines asunder, even if the blossoms died.

But now he could not think ahead…he refused to think ahead…and burying himself in books became his only link to meaning, as he waited for the ink to dye his heart black.

Then one night, Sauriel decided enough was enough. He had been treating her like a plague victim as well, and she was finding it increasingly hard to sympathize with his attitude. He had returned multiple notes from Sansa unopened, and the traveler woman was aware of the toll his bitterness was taking on the girl, and the way her eyes had become glazed over, just waiting and wishing for death.

So Sauriel entered the accounting room and received the welcome from him she expected.

"I have nothing to say to you," he stated coldly.

"Did I ask you to say anything to me?" she responded quietly, seating herself in the chair across from his desk on which he was marking ledgers. It seemed his chair of authority had become his own personal iron throne, where he was king of laced lies and stunted sentiments lost in the shuffled papers, white and cold as snow.

"I'm not interested in listening either," he growled, "nor receiving any further notes. They clutter the desk."

Sauriel stared at him hard. "I should never have brought her back to you…not if you were going to treat her like this…"

"You're quite right, you shouldn't have," he concurred flippantly. "It's just brought us all more suffering than we ever bargained for. Why did you have to interfere, anyway?"

She refused to respond to this, but murmured on her own, "Love is death. A death to self…but the danger is that little by little, as your heart breaks apart, it may die."

"It has broken…enough," he sighed. "Now it has hardened to what must come, and you certainly cannot change that, nor should you want to."

"If it has hardened," she hissed through clenched teeth, "stop clutching it so tightly, or it will break apart in your own hands. Better to let it fall, strike the ground, and shatter…than to kill it yourself."

"At least it is numb now to the shattering," he retorted. "I do believe I've been through enough for one lifetime, thank you kindly."

"And if she dies in anguish for protecting her child… _your_ child…"

"It's not mine!" His words were biting, but lacked logic. "I have…no part…with it."

 _Emotion. Alive. Not so hardened, after all._

Sauriel narrowed her eyes. "Sansa would not be Sansa if she chose herself over the child. And Joanna would not have been Joanna if she chose herself over you."

Tyrion snapped his gaze on Sauriel. "Do not bring her into this!" he spat.

"She is in this," she insisted. "And well you know it. Your fear is strong enough to tear down mountains. It is more dangerous even than your hatred."

"It is not fear, but anger!" he shouted, and was visibly shaking now. "She has betrayed me. Betrayed…everything we had…"

"For disobeying your order to kill her child? What did you want, a slave or a wife?"

"A woman," he choked. "Alive. Not…torn apart inside."

"And she needs a friend. Would you have it said that your lady showed more courage in defying you than you did in refusing her solace? Would you have it said…that you had become like Twyin…?"

"Do not…" He clenched his fist around a paperweight, his eyes glittering dangerously, as a flood of memories assaulted him. But Sauriel did not move, pushing back his inner fire with her own. If he was a lion, she was a dragon. No…he was not really going to throw it at her…was he?

He let go of the paperweight and slumped back in his chair, overcome by a sense of defeat. "I cannot give…anything anymore," he rasped. "All that I had…is dried up inside."

"Then do what you must to replenish it. If you do not, she will give up on any chance of living." Their eyes locked. "She is already slipping. With every note you reject, she slips further." Sauriel looked about her surroundings. "I fear…a shadow hangs over this place, and it's calling to her. I could bring her back from the grave only once, as we both surely surmised, but the otherworld still holds a claim to her, and whispers for her to come back. She is terrified, Tyrion, terrified of losing everything. Do not make her face her fears alone."

He stood silently before her bed that night when she was fast asleep. Hours before, he had found himself outside, standing before the swing from which she had fallen, and the tree of death which beckoned to her. And with a razor, he had vented his fury by cutting the cords upholding the swinging cause of his distress. He had cried out as it clattered to the ground, as if he had cut the cords of his own heart.

Now, his violent passion sated, he had stolen into her chamber at a late hour, just to watch her breathing, to ease himself by this symbol of her life, still hanging by a thread. It was a strange thing focusing on the hypnotic rising and falling of her breasts, grown full from impending motherhood, made visible by the moon's light shining through the thin material of her shift.

 _Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale…_

And automatically his own breath fell in sync with hers, as the tide follows the movements of the moon's rising. He wanted to caress and kiss those motherly, womanly breasts…he wanted to hear her moan sweetly in his ear, and he wanted to whisper tender words back to her, and feel the brush of her long, wild hair against his face. Could he ever truly shred himself away from her, shed her off of him like a snake's skin, or would it be like expelling the air from his lungs?

The next night he came to watch her, she was more restless in her sleeping, dreaming he knew not what about, but he could imagine the meshing of time and eternity in the teeming depths of the subconscious. He saw anxious beads of sweat form on her forehead. Was she dreaming of her death…or her little one's death? He noticed the way her one hand clutched the coverlet and the other trembled, lying outstretched, palm turned upward.

 _Was she beckoning to him in her dream?_

Part of him wanted to clutch and kiss it, to swallow up the tremor and make it melt away in his own small body, tangled up with hers in the warmth of their embrace. But another part resisted, yes, even the lightest encounter of flesh upon flesh in the joining of hands. It was too early, and he was too empty for touch.

But he did run his hand along the silken cover of the pillow beside her, and there he placed the latest summer blossom from the ivy-covered tower. He had braved the thorns amidst the vines, letting them make him sensible to pain again, and the purest Jasmine blossom was sprinkled scarlet, a proof that he was no longer numb.

The following day, her heart soaring, she tried to send him another message. But he maintained his silence. Words could not conquer fear, or hate, or the immutable depths of indifference. Only feeling could do that, only the shock of the senses. They would have to grow back together through them.

The next night he noticed the way her hand automatically traced her round belly in her sleep as a storm beat against the outer castle walls and boarded window. Was her role as mother so deep that it penetrated the boundaries of waking thought? There was love in those soothing fingers, some love he could not completely understand yet…and it threatened him.

Yet still he hungered for that knowing, and felt her hunger pulsing as real as his own, knotted together in some circle which could not be broken, a sphere that consumed him with a longing far deeper than a baked clay oven and hotter than the skin of the sun. And upon her pillow he placed the bread of rosemary and thyme, to be broken by her fingers alone.

The next day Sauriel delivered a simple message. "She will not break the bread nor her fast, until milk is brought to her."

He smirked, somewhat wryly. Ah, yes, the herbs of faithfulness, followed by the milk of forgiveness. She asked much, and quickly. Was it still a wisp of the demanding little girl in her, once greedy for flattery and presents? He was not upset, but forgiveness could not be forced. Acceptance was coming, but growing slowly, like the flowers on the vine.

He took longer to make his visit to her chamber that night, and did not come until only a single star remained glistening outside the window, waiting to be absorbed in the grey-eyed mist of morning. He saw Sansa lying haphazardly in bed with a book of prayers to the mother open on top of her. She had clearly been trying to wait up for him, like a she must have waited for her father to come home as a little girl, but sank into slumber at last.

He smiled a little as he placed the glass of milk on her end table. She was so adorable, so singularly adorable, all tangled up in blankets, with messy hair, and her messy book flung open with crumpling pages. And she was _his_.

He wanted to wake her up then and there and put an end to the game. He felt guilty for playing it this long. But then a pang of terror struck him, imagining the tossled bed empty and her nightgown lying there, never to be worn again…and the door of his heart could not yet open, though all the locks had been undone.

 _One more night_ , he thought.

But the next day made him regret his indecision, for Sauriel came to him in the evening, telling him that Sansa had been sobbing her heart out all day and now was in an extremely weakened state. Worse still, pains, intermittent and spaced apart though they were, had begun. It could start anytime now.

Tyrion's own heart had lodged in his throat as he went once more to her chamber. He saw her lying on the far side of the bed, whimpering weakly, undone, like a dress at the seams.

 _Oh, when was the last time she had sewed? She used to love it so much…used to be so proud and happy to show off her needlework…would every piece of cloth she had so lovingly designed become a relic?_

He inched closer to the bed, afraid that he should be spurned by her for this late effort at reconciliation. Watching her so long had made him love her all over again, in some new dimension, as one watches over a garden. Now he felt like an insect on the petals.

 _How could he have been so selfish? So hard? So much…like the man who had given him his noble, sullied name, and done his utmost to destroy his humanity, pulling it apart, like petals, and scattering them to the wind?_

When he reached the edge of the bed, she sensed his presence, and turned to him.

"Tyrion…" She stretched out his name, tremulously, almost in disbelief. And so they stared, and stared, and stared at each other, each facing the fear flaring in the other's eyes. Then the tears swelled in her own, and dragging herself across the bed awkwardly, she flung her arms around his neck. "Tyrion, Tyrion!"

"Sansa…please…" He tried to force his voice not to betray hurt or fear, so enveloped was he in her own hurt and fear. He clambered into the bed himself, to stop her from straining herself.

"Please, please don't hate me…don't let me die with you hating me…I can't stand it…" She sobbed against his shoulder. He curled his arm around her back and rubbed up and down along her spine. "Oh, my girl," he choked, "whatever will I do with you? Tell me, what am I to do with you, my bonnie, brazen girl…"

He nuzzled against her tear-stained cheek and let their lips lightly mingle. They tasted of strawberry tea, but felt chilled like the moonlight through the window. He pressed his lips against hers more firmly, seeking to warm them.

"I'm…your girl…" she whispered.

"Yes, my girl…my _lady_ ," he added, and kissed the palm of her hand.

She closed her eyes, as if sustaining a sharp pain. "Would I be yours…even if…"

"Don't say it," he pleaded. "Don't. Just feel…"

And she did, the depth of his lips hot against her own, then her neck, and she breathed in like it was the first time she'd ever been kiss this way. Were they bathing now in the filtered light of the moon, the harshest of mistresses? Life to death, death to life…glowing eerily as an ancient sacrificial flame, making her skin seem translucent. He saw her blue veins standing out in her hands, and felt them flicker when he kissed her eyelids.

 _Threads running through her, threads of blue running through her like the rivers of life…threads flaming red inside, the rivers of love…_

"Love…" She whispered it between breaths, between kisses. "I do…love…"

"I know," he acknowledged. They had come too far for him to forget or ignore it.

"Then…know…know…this…" She placed his hand over her belly, and he closed his eyes tight, feeling the movement.

"Our child… _is alive_."

"Oh, Sansa…" It was all he could get out before bursting into tears.

"You will love…our child," she whispered. "Won't you?"

He forced himself to nod, again feeling the living movement of another being encased within her body. He touched his fingers to his lips and back to her belly. And they cried.

"Love me," she choked, "even if…"

"If… _anything_ ," he murmured. "I fear…I am…too far gone…" He inhaled shakily. "Oh, what did they do to this twisted lump of clay when they sought to wed and bed him? They could not know how much…oh, I'm all twisted up for you, and though all the stars might die, I shall never be straight again."

They went on, kissing and stroking and breathing life into each other…and then they drifted to sleep, with the tears still wet on their cheeks. Tyrion even slept soundly, until he felt his wife tighten as if in pain.

"Sweetheart…"

"It's time." Her eyes were dark, looking down at her abdomen where the baby was pushing down, but the strength of her hand was determined as she squeezed his and whispered, "One more time."

And their lips met one last time before the ordeal began.


	19. Chapter 18: The Birthing

**Happy New Year, everyone! So...I'm going to do the Catholic cheater thing, and say that while I didn't get this up by Christmas Day, it's still the Season of Christmas liturgically, so it still kind of counts as a Christmas present to all of ya, lol! Anyway, I hope you enjoy the latest installment, and look forward to another year of wonderful literary adventures with you in 2017!**

Chapter 18: The Birthing

Tyrion knew hearing her scream would burn him up inside. He knew it would make him run through a thousand painful memories, resurrecting the cries of men and women killed in some way or other connected to him. He had learned to be hard to it back in Westeros, most of the time at least, and to work through it with a bitter smirk and sarcastic tongue. It was either that or go insane.

But he had softened the casing of his heart since then, allowing it to become vulnerable, piercable. And as a result, his defense against the memories, and the trigger of those memories, weakened. Sometimes the screams swallowed him up, hollowed him out, in the barren land of nightmares. And always, it ran back to the first scream ever he heard, the scream that carried him through his birthing, like a ringing curse of pain…

 _Did all the suffering in the world run back to him, the first causation? Sometimes in his battle-weary mind, world-weary mind, it felt that way…_

But outside her chamber, where Sauriel had sent him lest he make things worse by panicking, Sansa's first cry cut him with an intensity he had not anticipated. He couldn't help but think of the little girl kicked across the room by one of Joffrey's guards, trembling like a leaf with her dress torn open.

Yes, he had heard her cry out since then, most notably the moan uttered at their consummation. That cry had been one of pain, but also pleasure. It had been one of opening up to the unknown, but an unknown she herself had embraced, her body and soul mingling with his and shattering the last separation between.

But this latest cry was wrought from an internal tearing far deeper, punctured with fear's cold claws. It was a pushing outward, a strangled cry of a struggling survival…oh, again and again she screamed…

 _Had she gotten a scream out when the knife bit open her neck? Or had she been forced to bear the final deathly slice in silence, with the metal tearing through her soft white flesh and spilling her dark life's blood? Oh, not again…he couldn't bear for her to suffer it again…nor to see her eyes emptied of the love that shone through them…_

Tyrion dared a drink from the wine jug on the table. Even Sauriel insisted that he have one or two, or else he would come apart at the seams. But he was so swallowed up by the thought of his young wife's suffering, he barely appreciated the taste of the grape's blood on his tongue, gulping it down for medication as opposed to pleasure.

He also barely heard the sound of boots on the floor coming closer, closer to him. The thudding was heavy, manly, yet not as strong it seemed as the screams of pain. It was only when the approaching figure's shadow fell over him that he leapt up from his seat on the chaise, and reached for the dagger he no longer possessed.

 _Still his reactions were from days of old…reaching for invisible knives to protect himself from that which no mortal weapon could protect him from: hurt…_

He saw a man standing in front of him, old and yet seemingly without any firm planting in time itself. Like Sauriel, there was something about him that seemed otherworldly in its authority, in the straightness of his spine and the glint in his steel-gray eyes. He had a purple cloak wrapped around him, which ran all the way down to his polished leather boots and trailed along the floor in the back. There was a covering over his mouth.

Tyrion knew who it was instantly, though he had never set eyes on him before.

"Thurandin comes," he rasped, and there was heat riding hard through his voice. The tension he had lived with for the past month was rising to the surface, threatening to lash out through his temper at his employer he had long held in contempt for refusing him a meeting.

"Beware of insolence to me," the old man growled deeply. "You are in my service…"

"I choose who I will serve," he shot back.

"And respect is due to…"

"I have no respect for a landless lord who refuses to show his face to me!" He was still far too much a Lannister to take orders from a minor noble easily, especially one who seemed so much a part of the haunting aura of the surroundings.

They stared each other down silently, with their eyes as unsheathed blades, until Thurandin finally relented, and pulled back the covering. The glowing quality of his silver hair and beard stood out eerily in the shadows, and his mouth set into a tight, hard line.

Sansa screamed again from inside the chamber, and Tyrion flinched. "What curse lies on this place?" he demanded. "You will tell me, you will tell me now…what curse lies upon my wife?"

"She was a fool to go out…upon the swing…and you should not have cut it…"

"Curse you and your damned swing! Tell me the truth…what power lay in it, and in that tree? She said she heard voices…you know, you must know what she meant!"

"The voice…of a girl?" A slice of pain shot across the man's eyes.

" _Tell me_ …" Tyrion's words were shivering now. If his wife was made to face death once again, he had to know the cause at least, somewhere to lay the blame for such a cruel unfolding of her shroud.

Thurandin stiffened, and then relaxed. "Fifteen years ago, when land was still mine, I threatened to evict a tenant farmer unless he gave to me his only daughter in exchange, for I lusted after her. She, out of love of him, sold herself to me. At first, she was nothing more to me than a plaything. But…she was kind to one who had treated her as an animal to be bartered with for her father's livelihood. Her youthful gentleness became my only comfort in these lonely halls…" His deep voice cracked. "But still she feared hell for what she had been made to do. And then…" He closed his eyes. "She fell off that swing outside, trying to pick a blossom from the tree bough. Broke her delicate neck."

"So…so you believe her reach is from hellfire?"

"No!" Thurandin spat. "No, never, never that. I alone would deserve it…"

"Then why would my wife be cursed? No one but a demon would curse her…"

"She was not cursed," he snarled. "She was… _called_ …"

 _Oh. Called across…to the other side, where she had dwelt once before…by a girl, not so different from her, whose portal to the otherworld had been that swing, that tree…perhaps, in some purgatorial prison…she was lonely…?Oh, gods, no…not Sansa, do not take her away!_

Just then, Sauriel came out and met Thurandin's eyes as if she knew them well. She gestured for him to come into the chamber where Sansa was in labor.

"What…what's going on?" Tyrion's snapped his gaze on Sauriel angrily. "You've met this man before I did? What have you been keeping from me?"

"He's done much time in the dungeon, searching out the door between life and death. He's also a grave thief and a cutter of bodies…"

" _What?!_ "

Sauriel's look bored into Tyrion. "If she is to live, or even have a fighting chance of it, someone must open her up and take the baby out. I am unable to do it. But…"

"He's only done work on corpses, not living flesh!"

"If you stand in the way of this, you condemn her to certain death!"

"I am her husband!" he shouted. "I have a right to…"

"You may have a right," she conceded. "But you won't have the ability."

"How can you…"

"Because that wine you just drank had a sleeping potion in it."

Tyrion stared at her in disbelief for several moments, suddenly noticing a strange sensation in his head, and realizing she was dead serious.

"You…witch…you damned…witch…"

And that was the last thing he remembered before his mind went numb.

When Tyrion woke up, he felt a strange buzzing in his head. Then the buzzing was overtaken by the sound of crying. But it was not cries of pain anymore, and they were not from Sansa. No, this was a cry of freshness and vigor, loud and clear and so very full of life.

He propped himself up on the chaise, his eyes widening and his heart racing. He struggled to his feet, trying to regain his balance, and walked shakily towards the chamber in which he had last left his wife. Oh, gods, please…

There were candles burning through the last hour of darkness, casting shadows along the walls, stretched and strange like the flickering flame of dreams, running one after another after another in troubled sleep. Sauriel was sitting in a chair alongside the bed, her eyes meeting Tyrion's and seeming to guide his view to the pillow where Sansa lay.

She was exhausted, wrung out like a rag it seemed, with the color drained from her pale face and lips. She could barely keep her eyes open, but still she caressed the baby close to her heart, like a little doll, and let it suckle at her breast. She was humming, very, very softly, an old lullaby from the north, invoking the protection of the Seven on the little children…

Something inside Tyrion broke watching her hand gently stroking her newborn, and hearing the simple tune rising from memories of her shattered homeland, he retreated from the chamber in tears. Joyful, sorrowful, glorious, he knew not what kind. Perhaps that is the best kind of crying…where the whole heart gushes out, and all the colors of the soul run together.

Sauriel came out to him after a little while, and he looked at her pleadingly.

"Is…is she dying, Sauriel?" he queried brokenly.

"Dying? No. Not now, at least. She's very weakened of course, and she's lost a great deal of blood. She was unconscious for the cutting and stitching up, but she will of course know the pain of it when she becomes fully aware. But the operation's intent was successful. She is still whole inside. His lordship is evidently skillful at his craft. He is the one to thank this time round."

"Where…where has he gone? I wish to speak with him…"

"Go back and see your wife and child first," she urged him.

Tyrion swallowed. "I…don't know if I should. I don't want to…intrude…or disturb…"

"For the love of…" The old woman shook her head. "You're the child's father! In there is exactly where you belong, and there's no such thing as intruding in a place you belong."

Sauriel left him alone then, to give him space with his own thoughts and the chance to prepare for this first contact. Finally, he reentered the chamber, and slowly, ever so slowly, approached his wife.

Sansa seemed to be asleep, but then flickered open her eyes when she sensed his presence and gifted him with one of her softest smiles. "Meet…your daughter," she whispered, gesturing for him to climb up into the bed.

He swallowed hard. "San…" His voice failed him, overcome by the emotion of the moment.

Her smile was overcast by a look of concern. "I know…I should have had…a son for you…but…"

"Hush, hush," he chided her, summoning up his strength to climb into the bed. "Not another word…"

He gazed fully upon his child for the first time. She was so tiny, so helpless, so…alive. Although she could not yet see clearly, her tiny fist had clenched onto lock of her mother's silky hair. _And she was…normal. Fully formed, not like him._

Tyrion felt Sansa move the baby towards him, and the infant's hazy blue eyes met his for the first time. She squirmed a little, and he felt shaken to the core with terror.

 _Was she going to be afraid of him? Was she going to cry? Was her mother going to have to tell her he wasn't some horrible monster come to do her harm?_

"Hold her, Tyrion," Sansa coaxed.

"I…I don't want…to scare her…" He inhaled. "She's…so beautiful, Sansa…"

He remembered being a small child when one of the ladies of the court had brought her baby in a bassinet while her husband and his father discussed the affairs of state. She had stepped away for something or other, and left the baby in the bassinet alone. He had gone over, curious as little boys will be, and started talking to the baby to ease some of his gnawing loneliness. He had told the baby how much he wanted a dragon for his upcoming 6th birthday…that he would be very good with dragons surely, because they were ugly, and wouldn't mind if he were ugly, and he could spend time with something that didn't mind if he talked to it a lot, and he wouldn't be all alone anymore…

Then the baby's mother came in, saw him leaning over the bassinet, and pushed him away from it, as if he were a rat trying to climb in and bite the child. It was the commotion that frightened the baby into crying, he had been sure, but the woman was merciless in blaming him for it, saying that Tywin should have "locked up the little demon monkey" for their visit.

But now, gazing into the face of his own child, he did not see any signs of fear or panic, only a fathomless innocence. _She trusted him…she trusted him…oh…_

"See?" Sansa whispered. "She's not afraid at all…just…hold her."

The baby was half against his chest and half against the pillow now. Her hand had finally opened up enough to release her mother's hair. Tyrion wondered if she might want something else to cling to for the moment, so let his finger touch her palm, and she obliged him by closing her little fist around it.

His courage increased, and he pulled her up into his arms. "There…there, there…" He tried to make his voice soothing as he adjusted her weight against him. There was something so pure about her, like freshly fallen snow without a track of man or beast having been made upon it. It filled him with wonder and awe, and he wished it would always be this way for her, but he knew well enough how life had a way of leaving cruel imprints.

 _Oh, please…let her live her days in peace…let the only games she plays be those of joy…do not let them put the choice to her…to win or die…_

He couldn't tear away his gaze from her, but felt himself linked so profoundly with her every tiny movement, every baby-thought, like baby-talk, garbled but adorable, in her own little world. His whole life he had been struggling to make some sort of lasting impression on people, whether it be to inflict fear or instill respect, in spite of his stature. Now in this moment, all he wanted from tiniest of beings was love. And he dared to believe that he felt the beginnings of a bond forming between them.

"She…she seems to like…my finger," he muttered, chuckling awkwardly. "Maybe…in time, she'll…like…like me too…" He felt tears well up in his eyes at the simplicity of this moment, and went to brush them away with his one free hand, running over his scar. The horrors of Blackwater contrasting so starkly in his mind that he felt a shiver run up his spine.

 _He would protect her from them…from the winter wind always howling at his back…from lions, wolves, and dragons…from anyone who might seek them out…he'd battle the whole world to keep her beautiful eyes from seeing what he had seen, what Sansa had seen…_

Just then Sansa twitched and stifled a moan. Tyrion turned to her, realizing she was in pain, not sure quite what to do while still holding on tightly to his child. He wanted desperately comfort his wife, but without frightening his daughter. Too much happening at once…

With her perfect sense of timing, Sauriel had made her way back into the chamber and gently eased the baby out of Tyrion's arms. The little one seemed not to want to let go of his finger, whimpering as she was pulled away.

"Oh – Tyrion…" Sansa bit her lip. "Don't…let them take…take her away…please…"

"It's alright, love…shh…" He stroked her hair, realizing she was starting to drift into a confused state.

"But…but they will…they'll…try and…"

"Over my dead body," he choked, kissing his wife on the forehead. "She's ours, and ours alone. No one else holds a claim to her. No one has the power to take her away…"

His own mind envisioned how it might have gone had they been back at King's Landing. He imagined, in horror, the mockery and scorn they would have been subjected to for having a daughter, how his manhood would have been scoffed at, and her womanhood put to shame. He thought of how they would have tried to take the child away, and use her as another pawn on their chessboard of greed and desire…and then he banished the thoughts with resolve.

 _Never…never would they touch…his family now…_

"Tyrion," Sansa sobbed, tears running down her cheeks as her nestled her head into his shoulder. "I'm afraid…ahh…" She tightened, again in reaction to pain.

"Don't be…don't be," he calmed her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders very carefully, observing through the thin shift where the bandages crisscrossed over her belly. The shift fell open some, exposing her breasts to him. He swallowed, and then very gently, he kissed them, and her shoulders, and her neck, until she moaned, but for a reason other than pain.

He turned her face towards him, and let their cheeks slide against each other, and he kissed away the tears, the salt stinging his lips and tongue. "Don't be afraid…don't be afraid anymore…my brave, strong girl…you're safe, I promise, you're safe…"

Sauriel came over with a vial and handed it to Tyrion. "Get her to drink this," she instructed. "It will help with the pain."

He nodded, and put it slowly to her lips. She seemed unnerved at first – good gods, had her mind gone back to a world where poison was still a real threat? – but as he lifted her head, she trusted him enough to swallow it down.

"Good girl," he praised her, with one of his sincere, eager-to-please smiles.

She chuckled very softly in response and again leaned back into him. "Tyrion…?"

"Yes, dear?" he responded, letting his hand trail her spine.

"Can I…hold the baby tomorrow? Will they let me…?"

"Sansa," he exhaled. "You may hold her as much as you want, for as long as you want, whenever you want."

She smiled softly and started to drift off to sleep in his arms.

"We're free, Sansa," he whispered in her ear. "Really and truly we are. And we're never going back. I swear it as a…"

 _Damn him to hell, had he almost just said Lannister? It had been such an instinctive fall back over the years, when he had no other leg to stand on…_

"As your husband, and your child's father," he amended. "I'll never let them frighten or hurt you again. I swear it."


	20. Chapter 19: The Passage of Time

Chapter 19: The Passage of Time

The passage of time can seem all too fast, or all too slow, or just right, depending on one's perspective. A life spent enraptured in high drama seems to rush by like a dancing reel, but the notes of the tune never linger. They are meant to simply keep the mind from stopping to realize how mad the world has become. One must always be in motion lest the stillness contaminate the senses, and generate a yearning for something more.

But for Tyrion one-time-Lannister, life had taken on a very new pace, a very new tune, worn into the years with a comfortable precision. The memories were interwoven gently, without the cut of glory or clash of guilt. They were love-wrought, softly, slowly, like the strings of a lyre in a lullaby. What dramas there were merely found there expressions in the change of chords without breaking through the song.

And the song was laced through with the voice of a child. And her fair face, and bright blue eyes, and soft brown hair. They had decided to name her Sophie, in honor of the young woman who lost who life upon the swing, and for whose sake the lord of the manor had saved Sansa's life with his skills as surgery. And as her name denoted, Tyrion hoped that she might grow in wisdom.

One of the first things to catch baby Sophie's attention had been a wooden hoop strung with ribbons of pink and blue and metal-fashioned charms of the sun, moon, and stars hanging over her crib. Tyrion first connected with her through it, for it was during spinning it and talking to her in his sing-song voice that he first got her to laugh. Though she was too tiny to understand any of it, he would make up stories for her, with the sun and moon as father and mother, and all the stars their children.

He had been nervous to hold her for a long time, always tentatively asking Sansa permission whenever he drummed up the courage, and she always having to remind him it was his child as much as hers. Indeed, she indicated, with some small internal knowing, she was very especially his. Over time, he got much more confidant holding her, and she would clutch his shirt, and he would comment upon how she really loved his shirt.

One winter day, when Sophie was one years old, Sansa had dressed her in a lovely little red hood and matching dress, and was showing her the beautiful mountain snow that had iced the balcony, and the view of the peaks in the distance. Sansa herself had been wearing a gorgeous burgundy dress and gold-fringed red cape. With Tyrion improved status and position, they could afford such things now, and Sansa had made short work of sewing them all proper clothing.

Tyrion himself had learned to dress plainly and preferred it now to any former finery which brought too many mixed memories with it. Nevertheless, he loved seeing his girls look so beautiful, and when he came in upon them, he was beaming ear to ear.

Sophie caught sight of him and with outstretched arms she cried gleefully, "Papa!"

It was her first word.

Tyrion turned positively pink with pleasure, although then he felt slightly guilty that she had not addressed her mother first. Sansa tried to hide it, but he knew that she felt it keenly.

"She's yours, Tyrion," she stated, smiling softly.

"Ours, love," he assured her, taking the little one in his arms, but simultaneously squeezing his wife's hand.

That the little girl was clever beyond her years could not be doubted as she grew up. That her father had read to her constantly as a baby and a toddler no doubt helped inspire her own love of books, and her quickness to grasp concepts. That he had grown to love her with a depth only rivaled by his love for her mother was evident, for as her mother had assured him, she did not judge by his looks, his height, his past. She simply knew him for his love, and returned it to him.

And their love was bound up in books, for Tyrion had become more than an archivist. He had managed to break down the wall between himself and the elusive Thurandin, and convinced him to allow him to formulate a library that could be utilized by the public as a means of educating the villagers. He had also earned himself a title as hand of the lord, and a mediator between the nobleman and the village counsels from who he had been separated for so long.

"Knowledge is power," he had repeated to Sansa when first telling her of the plan put into action, using his new position to make learning accessible to the villagers. "We have tried keeping it bottled up, and it betrayed us in the end. Time to let it out of the glass."

The seasons turned over and over again as Tyrion's plans bore fruit. Meanwhile, little Sophie grew older, and when she was four, Sansa began to desire another child. But Tyrion was terrified of the notion, realizing how very close to death her last pregnancy had brought her. Sauriel had given her a beaded bracelet meant to help monitor the cycles of her body, and the method had been successful in avoiding conception. But it disturbed Tyrion to no end when she began to purposely "forget" to wear it.

"Sansa, why tempt fate like that?" he would explode, exasperated, realizing she had no idea whether she had been fertile or not the previous night when they had relations.

Because I want to be the mother of more than one child in my life," she responded.

"That's just selfish," he snapped. "You're risking leaving me without a wife and little Sophie without a mother."

She felt sufficiently rebuked by this. "I'm sorry, Tyrion," she murmured. "It's just…so much a part of me, I suppose, to want more children. It's how I was brought up. And…perhaps I was hoping the next child would be…more like me."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he queried, somewhat annoyed.

"I mean…Sophie is Sophie. And while I love her more than my life, she will always be more a mix of you, with your cleverness, and my sister Arya, with her wildness. She even looks rather like Arya."

"Sophie's not _that_ wild," Tyrion defended her. "I mean, not in a really bad way."

"I never said she was bad," she exhaled. "She's not a bad girl, but…Tyrion, sometimes I think you let her run wild without discipline."

"She doesn't do anything _that_ bad…"

"Maybe if she were a little boy. But she's supposed to be a growing into a young lady…"

"That's an obsession with you, wife," he grumbled. "Maybe she's just not cut out the same way as…"

"My point exactly." She sighed. "I'm willing to concede to that. I tried to force my sister to be like me back in the day. It just caused us both a lot of needless pain. But the facts remain the same."

Tyrion shook his head. "What would have me do? Lock her in a tower to make her into a perfect lady for you?"

She turned her eyes down and shook her head. "We said once that she was part lion and part wolf. I can see that in her, even at this age. And Tyrion, there's more. She's…"

He shook her head. "Go on, say it. Say what you're thinking."

"She's very smart. Frighteningly so, sometimes. Have you not noticed her sometimes, imitating the stories you tell her? She makes herself crowns and scepters…"

"All little girls do that," he countered.

"No. She makes herself crowns that serve as war helmets and scepters that serve as swords. She enjoys giving orders, and there is a look in her eyes when she does it…"

"Sansa, really, she's all of four years!"

"She's knows who she is, Tyrion, even though she has never been told."

"I see," he whispered lowly. "Too much a Lannister for your tastes? Would you prefer to send her back, and get a replacement?"

"Tyrion," she exhaled. "You know that's not what I mean. I understand how close you are to her. But can you not understand how I feel as well?"

He met her gaze and sighed. As much as he wanted to say did not understand, he believed that he did. Poor Sansa was insecure as ever, had lost everything to the Lannisters, and even though she loved Tyrion deeply, he was still one of them in a way that manifested itself through the generations, and her daughter was a Lannister in a way that she never could be. And she felt she was losing her only child to him, the child she had nearly given her life for when that very Lannister father was willing to sacrifice her for Sansa's sake.

"I…understand," he tried. "If another child comes to us through what you've done, I will…understand."

And sure enough, it did.

The second pregnancy went much smoother than her first one. Indeed, as opposed to her onset of melancholy, she seemed to have grown rather giddy with joy during this one. Sauriel noted that she seemed certain the next child would fulfill the incompleteness she felt in her heart. Tyrion was not sure if this were entirely healthy, especially for Sophie, who contrary to her mother's estimations, he knew to be a very sensitive girl little beneath the spunkiness and wit. She was sensing that her mother seemed determined that this new baby would make up for everything she found lacking in Sophie.

It was not that Sansa was ever cold to her dark-haired little girl; and yet she was always chiding her for one thing or another, as if she failed to meet some imaginary level of perfection in her mind. Tyrion's seeming inability to take it upon himself to try and tame some of Sophie's unruliness only exacerbated the problem. But taking to heart all the horrible punishments he had received as a child, he could not manage it with his own.

What neither of them seemed to have anticipated was that the child would once again mirror the father…this time, in form.

It was another baby girl. And she had to be straightened when she came forth from her mother. And Tyrion was heart-broken. Especially because she was a daughter, the daughter Sansa had so desperately wanted to be more like a proper lady…now all ruined…

"Sansa, I'm…sorry," he had blurted to her when he first came into her after the birthing.

She looked from her child to him and just smiled, cradling her close, letting her nurse. _Nurse. The thing Tyrion had always feared his mother would never have let him do…_

"She's beautiful, Tyrion." She smiled deeply. "She's…everything I wanted."

"You don't know…what hardship she will have to…bear up against," he choked, "all because of me."

"But she will not suffer like you did," she countered. "She will know she is loved."

"Yes, but even so…"

"Husband, may I ask you a favor?"

He blinked. "You know you can. Anything."

"Just…may I name her…after my mother?"

He shivered. "I doubt Lady Catelyn would like that…very much…"

"Oh, yes, yes…she would…" Sansa bit her lip at the suggestion that her mother would not like her newborn child. "I know…I know she could be…cold sometimes, but…no, no…she could possibly be that cruel…not to my baby…" She gestured for Tyrion to come closer. " _Our_ baby."

Tyrion got himself up into the bed and inched his way closer to his wife and new child. A lump lodged in his throat and he touched the face of his dwarfed daughter. "Her face is…fine," he whispered. "I think…I do think…in every way but the growth of her bones…she will be her mother's own. Yes…yes, she is…beautiful, my love."

As the months passed, and Sansa spent more time focused on the special needs of her Caitey, Tyrion spent more time with his increasingly confused and rather put-off Sophie. And he started to tell her more about their past, about how they had come from a land across the sea, where once they had lived among the castles and grandeur in the storybooks he used to read her.

"Papa, why did you leave the land across the sea?" the five-year-old had asked him one day as they walked in the garden. "It sounds like it was a grand place."

"Yes, grand," he agreed. "But not very good. Do you understand the difference, Sophie?"

She squinted in an effort to make sense of it. "I don't know, papa."

"I'll put it this way," he started. "What would you choose, if it were offered to you, a crown jewel or a garden flower? Or the chance to live beneath a gilded ceiling, but never again to see the sun shine in the sky? Tell me, dear, would you take cake you knew was made with bad ingredients, even though it was sweet tasting, over a plain but filling piece of bread?"

She looked at him deeply, and her blue eyes hazed over with a Lannister's thoughts. "But you could have done great things there. You are smart enough. You could have ruled it all."

He smiled a little and shook his head. "I could have played but a small part, love, as one plays with puppets behind a screen."

"But you would have done it well, for you are clever."

"And if I were clever, and yet did not love, what would I be? If your mother were beautiful, as she is, and yet did not love, what would she be? And people cannot love when they are dead inside. And in that land, grand as it may have been, we were dying inside."

Sophie slowed her walk to a stop. "Mother doesn't love me near as much as Caitey."

"Your mother does love you, Sophie," he insisted. "Very, very much. It's just…Caitey is special to her in a different way…like you are special to me in a different way. Some things can be both/and."

"But then why could you not have had both love and power? All things grand and good would have been yours."

"It is possible to balance the two," he admitted. "But just barely. For one might easily be tempted to think…just a little too much of themselves, want a little too much for themselves. And then do you know what happens?"

Sophie shook her head.

"They lose everything. And you know something, my love?"

"What, papa?"

"I wouldn't want to lose you. Not for anything. And I feel rather grand for having you."

The little girl smiled softly, and slipped her hand into his. "Me too, papa."

He squeezed it in response, and turned to one of the bright yellow flowers growing through the cracks in the garden gate. He pulled it from the stem and stuck it into his daughter's hair. "And now, your highness, you do look truly grand at that."


	21. Chapter 20: Sword Eyes

**Hello, out there! *pauses and looks around for any signs of life*. I am SO sorry for pretty much abandoning this story for a year before picking it up again. I've been largely consumed with work as editor of a new merged online magazine (please see my profile) and got on a kick at writing Harry Potter fan-fic (if any of you guys are into that, please feel free to check that our too!). I'm not sure how many of you are left receiving updates on this, but to anyone who's left, thanks for still following, and I hope you like the final five installments of the saga, which is now mostly going to focus on Sansa and Tyrion's children. Please do let me know what you think, and how you might like things to develop! I hope you enjoy it, and have a blessed summer! XOX**

Chapter 20: Sword Eyes

"At it, Rod!"

Ten-year-old Sophie was armed with a wooden sword, dressed in a loose shirt and breeches, battling in the yard with one of the village boys, fresh out of class.

"Sophie, please…" Sansa tried to calm herself down as she watched her daughter swinging the large wooden object and clashing it into the boy's sword. "You're going to get hurt…"

"Sansa," Tyrion chuckled, leaning back contentedly in his wooden lawn chair, "I do believe she's holding her own."

"She shouldn't be doing that, Tyrion," she chided him. "She's…she's too old for it!"

"What? She's just getting good at it!"

"She's not a boy, Tyrion! She's a little girl! She's supposed to be…learning to be…"

Another loud crack erupted as she blocked another of the boy's thrusts and wacked him hard across the kneecap.

"Sophie, you're going to kill somebody!"

"Dear, please relax," Tyrion sighed, observing her pressing her knuckles to her teeth. "She and Rod do this almost daily, and neither one have managed to kill each other…yet." There was a twinkle in his eyes.

"She should be learning to embroider, not fence," Sansa exhaled. "And she really shouldn't be dressing in breeches, especially in front of boys. It's most unseemly. She should have started wearing a corset by now. Can't she try to be just a little more… _feminine_?"

"I think you cover that field quite thoroughly, Sansa," he replied. "And you do have your Caitey."

Sansa blinked at his rather dismissive remark about their smallest daughter, who was sitting not far off from where Sophie and Rod were battling. The six-year-old, as usual, was enraptured by her sister's exploits which she could not join, her arm wrapped around the now elderly dog Arya's neck. Her dwarfism still caused her to have a hard time walking, although she had a great deal of determination and always got up when she fell down. Rather like her father…

" _Our_ Caitey, Tyrion," Sansa reminded him quietly.

"I beat him again, Papa!" Sophie cried triumphantly, rushing over to her father. "I am getting better at it, aren't I?"

"You are at that, my little wolf," he affirmed, leaning up in his chair and checking her sword as if it were a knight's well-worn weapon. "I fear you will have put his manhood to full shame before long."

"When might I have a real sword?" she inquired eagerly.

"Sophie, you know you're not getting one, so why must you always ask your father that way?" Sansa exhaled, brushing back her daughter's wild dark hair that was falling in her smudged face.

"But I am old enough now," she protested. "When I was little, I played with a toy horse because I would have got hurt on a real one. But now I'm older, and I can ride with the best of them. Why can it not be the same with a sword?"

"Now then, why don't we talk about it more when we go for our walk?" Tyrion suggested, wanting to break up another quarrel between mother and daughter on the subject.

"Don't keep her out too long," Sansa chided. "I have to make sure she's cleaned up and dressed for his lordship's feast tonight."

Sophie rolled her eyes at the thought of having to be dressed according to her mother's frilly preference. The gathering that evening was to celebrate the harvest as well as the alliance of the villages and the castle, brought together through Tyrion's deft diplomatic skills. Thus far, although internal factions still existed, it had been for the benefit of all, maintaining the liberty of the village councils yet also recognizing the obligation of Thurandin to use his fortress for the protection of the whole. In exchange for that protection and the use of the open library Tyrion had transformed for teaching purposes, the villagers would help to keep the castle functioning and acknowledge it as the central point of the region.

But all this having been said, Sophie saw little point in celebrating the alliance by dressing up like a doll. She would prefer to be dressed like her father, in a fine crimson and gold tunic, the colors of the lord's house. She wished, more than anything, that she might have been born a boy. Then she would dress as she pleased, and wear a shiny steel sword strapped round her middle, with blood-red jewels all about the golden hilt.

But at the very least she could go walking with her father before the ordeal. She enjoyed their walks in the woods. They made her feel more alive than all the forced lessons she was made to take, and the stories he often told her would set her mind on fire.

"Papa, why can I not have a sword?" she asked again as they walked.

"And what would you be using it for, little warrior?" he asked indulgently. "Carving roast turkey?"

"Really, Papa, I could be in a real battle someday! I might need a sword!"

"Gods willing, you will never know a battle that needs fighting in this place," he stated.

"But what if I leave here in years to come? What if I go to the city?"

"Then you will surely sustain yourself by a sharper sword," he offered. "You have my mind, child, and your mother's heart. They have always served me better than the keenest weapons."

"I don't think I have anything from mother," she mumbled lowly.

Tyrion paused. "That's not true, not true at all…"

"Will you tell me more about the war, papa? Tell me about the battles you saw?"

He sighed. "Perhaps I have made them too…romantic for you already."

"It's not _that_ ," she sighed. "It's just…they're exciting."

He turned his eyes down, realizing how similar they really were. "Yes, thrilling," he admitted. "And…and we wanted to be away from them, Sophie. We would have done anything to get away from the wars. It was not…a noble sport."

"I think I might have been good at it, though," she said unflinchingly, "like you were."

He smiled almost grimly. "Yes, I think you would have been."

"What were they like, Papa, the banners that were raised against the sky? What was it like to see them, and to lead men?"

"It was…all awe, my girl. And to me, it was all the more so behind the battle lines, the crafting of destiny, as I saw it. But the morning, however bright it dawned, always bled out in the end, and the banners bled out."

She looked down dismally. "You just don't think I am good enough for it because I'm a girl," she mumbled. "Because of mother. She's not like us; she just doesn't understand…"

"Your mother is the strongest woman I have ever known," he stated, and his voice grew hard. "She has been through more than I pray the gods will ever keep you to bear, and come out still unbroken. You know nothing if you think her desire to protect you is a show of weakness. She has more courage than I have had a right to deserve in a wife. You must remember that, Sophie. Hear me?"

Chastened by the lecture, she nodded solemnly.

"Alright then. You'd best get back. Your mother will be waiting for you to try on your new dress…"

"The dress? Oh, Papa…"

"Sophie." He gave her a look of authority and she exhaled. He smiled a little. "Now, really, it can't be ever so bad as all that. It's for one night."

"The boys will make terrible fun of me if they catch me all frilled and fancied up," she lamented.

"Believe me, that'll change in a few years' time," he assured with a knowing twinkle in his eyes. "Now off to the castle with you!"

Sophie reluctantly did as she was told, and found herself going through a multi-hour ordeal of being bathed and dressed in a purple and white saffron gown. She was tall for her age, and was already beginning to need additional material added, which her mother saw to with a great deal of personal attention. She also had help to implement her instructions.

"Stand still, or you'll get pricked!" Sauriel muttered through the pins held in her mouth, as Sophie stood on a stool being forced into her dress. The old healer was accustomed to dealing with Sophie's rebellious streak and moods, but she was being particularly frustrating today, even for a seasoned veteran of powers and personalities such as her.

"Sophie, stop giving Sauriel such a hard time of it," her mother scolded. "She's almost through with you now, anyway."

"Why must I wear this, Mother, why?" she blurted. "I've never had to go to the gatherings before in such things…"

"Because you're grown up now," she stated. "You're meant to look and act respectably in spite of yourself."

"Grown up," Sauriel repeated, rolling her eyes. "Grown wild, like the storm in her eyes and the raven in her hair."

It was true that Sophie's once blue eyes had turned more gray as she grew older, and her once brown hair had darkened. The old woman had taken it for an omen more than once. She called them "sword eyes". Sansa had been understandably unnerved by the suggestion of her child's fate, and always tried to change the subject whenever Sauriel introduced it.

"Well, we're going to tame that wildness," Sansa huffed, working Sophie's hair into a tight, ladylike bun.

Caitey was watching from a seat in the corner, looking at a picture book, a favorite pastime of hers. "Sophie, I know it may be scratchy," the little girl tried to sympathize, "but you look so pretty in it. If I were pretty like you, I'd wear any dress Mama chose. They're always so beautiful…"

"Of course you would," Sophie shot back lowly. "You'd do anything mother wanted, wouldn't you, even if it did make you look silly?"

Sansa gave Sophie a harsh look as Caitey's face fell at the rebuke. She smiled softly at her smallest, shyest daughter with whom she spent so many hours, helping her in whatever way she could think, to stand and to walk, to read and sew. It was the saddest thing in the world that her own dream had come true in Caitey, for here she had a daughter after her own heart, a true _lady_ …and yet she knew the world would never treat her as she deserved. All the same, Sansa assured her, "Sweetheart, when you're old enough to go to parties, you may wear whatever beautiful dress you wish."

Sophie huffed impatiently. "Are we done yet?"

"Careful with your tone," her mother warned, her teeth set on edge by Sophie's insensibility to just how much her sister looked up to her.

"Thankfully for all, I believe the strife is o'er," Sauriel declared, standing away as Sophie jumped down from the stool.

Sansa turned back to Caitey, who still looked stung by her sister's comment, and asked softly, "Will you…be alright here for a little while?"

Caitey nodded sadly but obligingly, and Sansa kissed her daughter on the forehead before leaving with Sophie to go to the great hall.

But Sauriel was still standing there, gazing at Caitey. "Are you really alright, my quiet one?"

The little girl swallowed. "Yes, alright…"

Sauriel sat down next to her, and saw that her fist was clenched. "What is it that you are thinking about so hard? It comes through you in ways other than the voice, you know."

"I'm…weak," she whispered. "And…ugly. No matter what Mama says, I know I am."

"Oh, child," Sauriel soothed her, stroking back her blonde hair. "How could you ever be weak or ugly? No one with your kindness or patience could be either."

"But…but I can't keep up with Sophie," she insisted. "I can't play like she does…and she never wants me around…" The little girl bit back a sob.

"But you don't have to be Sophie," Sauriel countered. "Nor indeed should you be. You also don't have to be your mother or your father. It matters not what other people want you to be. You just have to be you. And that's when you'll find a strength all your own."

"But all of them are very strong," she protested. "Mama is so pretty, and so like a queen. Papa is so smart and proud. And Sophie…" Her eyes sparkled with hero-worship.

"She's just…Sophie," Sauriel exhaled. "And you're Caitey. You may not be devouring books on politics nor swinging wooden swords around, but those are not the only shows of strength."

"What…what could I ever do? I'm ever so dull to be around, Sauriel."

Sauriel opened the book she'd picked up. The page had a picture of a unicorn with a rose wrapped around its horn. "How much strength do you think it took for one to create this image?"

"I…I don't know," she stammered. "Not very much, I suppose."

"Really now? Do you think anyone can make it?"

Caitey looked more closely at the image. "I don't know about anyone. But I think I can."

"Can you?"

"Yes, yes, I…can do it."

Sauriel smiled. "Yes, you can."

The evening's events had unfolded with lots of speeches from longwinded people, including Lord Thurandin who, under Tyrion's counsel, had made more public appearances that had been his wont previously. Sophie had only been interested in her father when it was his turn. Afterward, she had moodily begun stabbing at her meal with a fork, but she had little appetite.

She felt stiff and scratchy in her dress, and would have given anything to be out of it. She glared enviously at the councilman's son sitting across from her, and his handsome jerkin and leggings. She even found herself obsessing over his fine boots, catching glimpses of them under the table. She loved the way boots made her feel, the sound they made when she walked in them. And her own pathetically ladylike slippers were starting to pinch and suffocate her feet.

But as for the boy himself, she didn't like him much at all. He was staring at her glibly, with a crooked-toothed grin that unnerved her, and a taunting look in his hazel eyes. She knew his father had been one of the village councilmen to oppose to alliance, and was jealous of Tyrion for rising so quickly in his position at the castle. Now was his opportunity to play with her.

"Your father, he's only half a man," the boy sneered under his breath.

Her eyes darted to the cynical smile on his face, and then narrowed angrily, but she held herself from responding. She did not want to give him any unnecessary pleasure, but her blood was boiling inside.

 _How dare he, how dare he mock Papa, the hand of the lord, the most important man in the mountains! Why, he was smarter than all of these petty councilmen put together, and of better blood, and higher rank, and could have this nasty urchin's head on a platter surely, and Sophie decided she just might ask for it, especially for her…_

"My mother always said crooked eyes are a sure sign of a demon hid inside," the boy continued. "How did he win your mother, hmm? Juggle on a stool?"

Sophie clutched her napkin. "You keep your bleedin' tongue in your head, bullock-brain."

"It's in my head, alright, and I'll be using it, too," he retorted haughtily. "See, we know all about your people. You're exiles from the land across the sea. You're not part of us, and you'll be taken on back there sooner or later. You'll remember this when they cut your father's ugly head off his little body…"

"I hope you bite your tongue off," she snarled. "I hope you choke to death on it."

"Well, isn't that sweet?" he mocked her. "Seems you have a little bit of demon in you, too…"

The next thing the boy knew, Sophie had lunged across the table and had him by the collar. The boy, in a chokehold, responded by yanking her halfway over, knocking plates of food everywhere. Sophie decided it best to take advantage of the situation, and forcefully pulled herself the rest of the way across, staining her dress with gravy and cranberry sauce, and pounced on him on the other side. She then proceeded to punch him right smack in the jaw.

"Sophie, by the gods! Enough!" Sansa was swooped down on her daughter like an owl, tearing her daughter off the boy. "Look at you, look at what you've done, shaming your father and disgracing your guests! Have you no sense at all?"

For the first time, Sophie realized that the entire room, consisting of two long tables full of guests, were staring at her. Some were starting to upbraid his lordship for the disturbance. Tyrion was trying to quiet them, assuring, rather halfheartedly that children will be children, and should be sent off to bed as opposed to disrupting the rest of the feast over it, especially after such an eventful harvest.

Then he made his way from his seat to the other table, and harshly whispered to Sophie, "Get out of here, get to your room this instant. Do you see what level of damage you almost caused with your out-of-control antics?"

"But Papa…"

"Go to your room now, young lady, and do not presume to speak back to me again. I'll decide on your fuller punishment later. I've let you fly too high; your wings must be clipped, for all our sakes. Now go!"

Sansa came into Sophie's room later that night, and found her daughter in bed, but obviously still awake. She sat down on a stool near the end table. "I brought you some bread and butter," Sansa said softly.

"I'm not hungry," Sophie declined.

"Dear, you really must try to eat something. You barely had a bite down in the hall…"

"It doesn't matter," she whispered.

"Just because you act like a hooligan, it doesn't mean you need starve yourself," her mother huffed. "But I do find it exceedingly hard to believe even you would take it to such lengths at a public gathering. You knew how important it was to your father and me, and to all the people of these mountains…."

"It wasn't…for nothing," Sophie blurted.

And somehow her mother sensed that this was true at a deeper level. Seeing Sophie looking so dejected, she hesitantly stroked her arm. "Now can't you tell me what all that was about? With you and councilor's son tearing each other's hair out?"

"He just…said things I didn't like."

Sansa sighed. "As I'm sure your father has told you many times, wit is superior to brawn in combating such things. And a lady should be able to silence wagging tongues through noble bearing."

"But I'm not…a _lady_ ," she retorted.

"Oh, Sophie," Sansa sighed. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Send me back, I suppose," the child shot back bitterly. "And…and get another little girl, more like Caitey…" Her frustration soon gave way to tears filling her eyes.

Sansa suddenly felt shot through with guilt, realizing just how deeply her disapproving attitude was affecting her daughter. Sophie hardly ever cried, or at least never in front of anyone.

"Oh, Sophie…please understand…I've never wanted to send you back, never ever…dear, please don't cry, please…"

She found herself lying alongside her young daughter in bed as Sophie cried into her bosom. "Tell Mama what's wrong," she whispered, running her fingers gently through her daughter's soft brown hair. "Tell Mama what happened…"

"They just said awful…awful things…"

Something finally clicked in Sansa's mind.

"Were they…about Papa?"

Sophie tightened. "Don't tell him! You mustn't tell him!"

"If he knew, he'd no doubt go easier on you over it."

"I don't care," she choked. "I don't want him to know."

"Dear Sophie, your father has been called every name imaginable, but that's only served to strengthen him. Calling people names doesn't take intelligence, but learning to temper oneself takes prudence."

"It was more than names." The little girl squinted. "He said…said they'd take Papa back to the land across the sea, and cut off his head."

Sansa blanched. "Did he really?"

Sophie nodded.

Her mother exhaled to calm herself, then responded quietly, "That…won't happen, dear. It was a very empty threat."

"I'm still glad I punched that boy though. He had it come…"

"Sophie…" Sansa exhaled. Then to Sophie's surprise, she saw her mother smile just a touch. "I cannot condone your action, but I can agree…he sounds like a perfectly vile boy."

"He is, Mama," she assured. "A groping mangy son of a…"

"Language," her mother cautioned. "I will not have you swearing like a Dornish sailor."

"Well, Papa talks like that sometimes."

"But you are not Papa."

"Sophie sighed. "Alright…but that boy's still no good, any way you say it."

Sansa shook her head, then indulgently kissed her daughter on the forehead. "Strange, strange girl you are, like your Aunt Arya when she was your age…"

"Mama?"

"Mmmh?"

"You miss them very much, don't you? Your family in the land across the sea?"

Sansa went quiet and gazed down at the coverlet. "When you give your heart, you can never take it back," she whispered. "Even transplanting flowers inevitably brings some old soil to a new patch. But…" She paused, and touched her daughter's hair. "I'm quite happy with my little patch. Yes, yes, I…I like it better than anywhere else I could have been planted."

"Even without all your family?"

She smiled. "I have all my family, Sophie. They are either here, in these rooms, or outside, beyond the tree's portal, or buried deep inside me, like seeds. I am not afraid; I believe that someday the seeds will sprout open, and we will all be together again."

"But not for a very long time, Mama!" Sophie countered concernedly.

"Right you are, my dear," Sansa assured. "I should never leave you without getting properly adjusted to wearing stays." This caused both mother and daughter to giggle. "Now, you should get some sleep. We'll talk more in the morning, alright?"

Sophie nodded. "Goodnight, Mama."

"Goodnight, my girl."

Tyrion was lying in bed when Sansa came in. He was obviously brooding over what he had been made to do. Punishing his children always ran against the grain with him, especially when it came to his beloved Sophie. This lack of enforced discipline was one reason she had been allowed to show her wild side in its fullness.

But he couldn't help himself. The mere fact that he had won his daughter's affection after he had been so fearful she would be disturbed by his deformities made him hesitant to jeopardize anything, in addition to the pressure he had placed on Sansa to terminate a difficult pregnancy.

He loved Sophie very deeply, and was now suffering over the evening's strife. He wondered if she'd ever view him as her confidante again. He wondered if she were not simply demonstrating too much of himself, and that he had allowed her to harbor notions of combat that were altogether too appealing for someone of her blood.

But he noted that his wife had a sympathetic rather than scolding look in her eyes. This was unusual when it came to dealing with Sophie. Still she said nothing as she brushed out her hair and undressed. He wondered what was running through her mind. Surely she was pleased with his decision to finally discipline their daughter, and yet she also seemed to feel sorry for everyone involved. He knew Sansa had a gentle heart, even if she hid it sometimes.

As she slipped into bed next to him, he heard her whisper in his ear, "She's a good girl at heart, Tyrion. A special girl."

He turned and looked at her. "Is special always a good thing, love?"

"Yes," she assured, and kissed him warmly on the lips. "When it's your kind of special, it's always more than a good thing."

"But what if I have passed something on to her that I never wanted to, something even more terrible than I passed onto Caitey…?"

"And who's to say it's not just as much a part of the wolf in her that makes her love her freedom so much?" Sansa retorted. "And who's to say the other side of that is not…honor, courage, loyalty?"

"Yet it is always in question, everything is always so uncertain…what the end result will be…"

"I wouldn't worry about Sophie or Caitey overly much. I believe I've done too much worrying over the years. But I think…no, I know…they'll be alright."

"You do?"

"Yes. I can't tell you how. But they will. And we'll be here to help guide them in the meantime."

A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, and he drew something out from under his pillow. It was a folded piece of paper which he gave Sansa to open. It was a little girl's sketch of a unicorn with a rose tied around its horn. It was impressive, even in its imperfect simplicity. But what brought tears to Sansa's eyes was how it was signed, in the nicest lettering a six-year-old can muster: "For Papa."


	22. Chapter 21: Little Finger

**Greetings, readers! So, via PM, quite a few of you commented that you wanted to see Sansa and Tyrion's past "come back for them" and their children in some way. Well, now it's happening, and things are once again taking a perilous turn. So hang onto your hats everyone, and I hope you're satisfied with the development!**

Chapter 21: Little Finger

"What are you reading, Sophie?" Caitey was standing at the bottom of the tree her sister liked to climb in order to spend time with her books. It was the first time she'd been able to go into the woods since Tyrion grounded her for her antics at the feast, and she was savoring her solitary freedom.

"Stories you wouldn't be interested in," Sophie mumbled in reply. The last thing she wanted was to be bothered by her little sister at the moment, but she knew well that Caitey could be fairly persistent.

"Why not?" the smaller girl queried.

"Because they are about wars and the like," Sophie exhaled, somewhat haughtily.

"Oh." Caitey was quiet for a moment, then asked quietly, "Can I climb up with you?"

"You know better than to ask that! You know you can't climb."

"Then can't you read down here? If you read me some of your book, maybe I could learn to like it…"

"Caitey!" she blurted. "Don't you understand? I want to be alone with my book, thank you very much."

Caitey winced a little and stepped back. "If…when you come down…would you like me to draw you? I could draw you, Sophie."

"Why don't you go draw Mother?"

"She told me to go find you."

Sophie groaned. "Well, maybe I'm busy too, see?"

Caitey looked down dejectedly. "Alright. Will…I see you inside? I wanted to show you my sketch book…"

"We'll see," Sophie mumbled, getting further absorbed in her reading until she finally heard her sister scuffle away.

When she was done reading the last chapter of her book, she clambered down from the tree at last. At the bottom, she found herself a stick, just long and light enough for her to handle. She had learned the moves well, placing her hands adroitly on either side of the stick, and swinging it about in circles, then going into thrusts and parries, bobbing and weaving in a dance as she imagined the sound of metal clanging against metal, and enjoying the sound of the wind being sliced…

 _Thwak._

Her heart jumped as the stick met an obstacle which slit it in two. She looked up to find a long slender sword drawn outwards, the hilt grasped in the hand of a stranger.

"Wood and metal make for poor foes, and even poorer lovers," the man offered. "The one makes a conquest of the other far too easily. Steel is meant to marry steel alone."

The man was very well-dressed, had a small moustache and a sleek frame. He walked lightly, almost like a cat, no…like a lion. There was something both suspicious and awe-inspiring about him. And his eyes were those of a man that knew what he wanted. Sophie found herself strangely impressed. It was a rarity that visitors of this type ventured into the mountains.

"Well, I'll be getting my own sword soon enough," Sophie stated. "My father will get one for me someday, I know he will."

"With such skill as yours, you should receive your sword from a great man," the stranger remarked. "Do you think your father is a great man?"

"Of course he is!" Sophie replied. "He is the hand of the lord, and the greatest man in all these mountains!"

"Greater than the lord he serves?"

"He has more wit than all the lords who ever held court in the castle, combined!"

"Then should he not be striving for something more than he is? Does not that book you read tell you so?"

She looked down at her book thoughtfully. "Yes, it says…those with keen minds are obliged to take their rightful place…"

"Very true, indeed," he praised her.

"But Papa doesn't believe it anymore," she blurted. "He used to, but not anymore. He says he had his time at it, but he likes things the way they are now."

"Do you really believe him?"

"Well, he wouldn't lie," she shot back defensively. "Not to me, anyway."

"Let's not call it a lie, exactly," he offered. "But perhaps he's thinking of you and your mother and sister."

"Thinking of me?" she blurted. "But I'm not the one who wants things to stay as they are. Maybe Mama and Caitey, but all they're interested in is embroidery and the like. Well, Caitey has been obsessed with drawing recently, but…oh, it's all the same dull tosh. I want to be like Papa used to be, in the land across the sea. I want to be great, and bold, and powerful…"

"Then you should be dearest to him of all," the stranger cooed, pushing her wild hair back over her shoulder. Sophie didn't much like his touch, but his words made her feel proud inside. "Do you know, little warrior, I come from the land across the sea? I used to know your father, when he was a great man, indeed."

Her eyes widened. "You did?"

"Yes, and I have come to ask him to return with me. There is unfinished business there which most needs his attention."

Now she was enraptured. "Do you think he'd take me with him?"

The man chuckled a little. "My dear girl, I quite hope he will take along his whole family."

"Oh, that would do no good," she sighed. "Mother and Caitey would just spoil everything. They'd be happier staying here where they are. They're not like us."

Just then there was the sound of a dog barking and a shuffling in the fallen leaves. Sophie rolled her eyes. "Caitey, what are you doing back here?"

"I…I thought I'd give Ayra for a walk," she answered quietly, although it was evident she was using the dog as something of a crutch to help her walk, as well. She couldn't do it on her own for so many hours.

The man's eyes darted to her. "Well, what do we have here?" he noted, scanning the little girl strangely. Then, like some hidden layer of paint suddenly revealing itself when the outer one chips, he snickered, "A female demon monkey…"

Sophie took a step back from him indignantly. "Don't you call my sister that," she growled.

He smirked. "Protective, aren't you? Even though she'd…ruin everything?"

"Hell, I don't care who you think you are, or where you come from; there was no call for that," she spat. "You should apologize!"

But the man did not respond to the demand of the girl with the broken stick. He just took a step closer to her smaller sister, as if to study her further, like someone in a cage at a freak show. Then the dog, sensing something was amiss, reacted to the menacing presence with the full force of her protective instincts. Old as she was, she had an undying sense about her, and lunged at the man with teeth bared. The man made some derogatory crack which was drowned out by the dog's barking, but then he found his hand clamped between her jaws, and groaned.

Before either girl had a chance to react, he had his fine sword poised, and thrust it into the animal's throat. Blood spurted over his clothing, and Caitey screamed as the loyal Arya rolled over on the ground, submitting to death with no more than a muted whimper. Sophie just stood speechless, gazing at the crimson splattering the cloak. When she met the man's eyes again, she saw blood rising in them as well.

"Caitey, go home!" she yelped, suddenly sensing evil at work and wanting her little sister away from it. "Go home…"

Baelish had now grabbed a hold of her arm and put the blade up to her throat. "You'll come along quietly, my little Lannister queen," he snarled. "Quietly, in life or death…"

"Still carry a dagger in the dark, I hope?"

The voice in the shadows startled Tyrion Lannister, his head buried in his lord's bookkeeping, as it often was late into the night. It was a voice old, out of place – it was a voice he had hoped had all but faded into memory. And it caused him to reach for the dagger he had finally purchased for himself that past summer. He had told his wife that it was only a show of his position as hand of the lord, a symbol of prestige. But she had looked at it with her eyes dulling at the sight. He had assured her again, it was of little importance.

But she read him too well. His instincts were still alive, they were growing alive again, as if waiting for something unknown, unseen. He had always had instincts like that, too keen for his own good sometimes. He liked to pretend he didn't have them around his family, wanted them to just forget what he had been, as if it had never happened. Yet Sansa knew, she knew what he was. The North remembers, so they said.

And she knew when he bought the dagger what was gnawing away at him inside. And she feared for the father of her children, and one whose heart had been welded into hers unexpectedly through countless sufferings. She feared the lion still had claws…and that they were being sharpened again, for some threat yet to materialize…

And now, Tyrion knew, it had arrived. And with dagger unsheathed, he named him in the dark…

"Little Finger."

The man snickered. "Have you been expecting me, a traveling stranger come to claim hospitality of this castle from your lord?"

"Not you in the particular."

"Then any old ghost from the past?"

"Not any." He turned his eyes up briefly. "Is my sister's poison wet on your mouth?"

"You are quick to the game, aren't you? How do you even know she's still alive?"

"Because you are here," Tyrion stated grimly. "And I would have felt her death in my bones long ago. The air, I think, would suddenly have seemed sweeter to me."

Little Finger snickered. "It's good air here, clean mountain air." He took a seat for himself in front of Tyrion's desk, uninvited.

"So why is it that you came to trek so far up into this good mountain air?" Tyrion queried. "Surely it must have been quite the hike."

"Oh, you did prove quite elusive for a spell," the visitor admitted. "Indeed, at times, it felt like an eternity. But coinage has a way of buying out even eternity, and loosening more than a few tongues, from Davneros merchants to the village peasantry."

"How generous of you."

"To be sure," he beamed. "So, turning to more stimulating subjects…I hear tell you haven't been able to put a son in her yet, even after all your time and travels with the simpleminded little she-wolf?"

"I think you know her better than to call her that," he shot back.

"Yes, don't I?" He raised an eyebrow. "She always was underestimated, and always harbored potential. Have you taught her anything, half-man? Taught her about the ways of this world? We both knew she could be taught to survive, if she just let a little of us into her…even just a little…"

"Baelish," he snapped, his throat tensing.

"What? Have you become so very saintly my language comes off too crude for your ears? Have you learned to compress your own sharp tongue so well?"

"She's mine, Baelish," he stated, quietly. "Not yours to play with in your mind."

"Possessive, aren't you, little man?" He leaned forward a bit. "How many brothels have you slept in since you came here, hmm?"

He exhaled quietly. "Suffer as they might from the lack of my charms – and don't think their suffering has not grieved me…no whores in this country have shared my company."

Baelish smirked a little. "Your wit is not altogether dead, half man."

"No, not dead," he admitted. "Though mostly sheathed to better use it in necessity."

"So you believed a necessity would arise?"

"I do not believe things I do not know," he retorted. "But the things I know I believe in well enough."

"Much _has_ happened, Lannister, since you went away."

"So I can well imagine," he conceded, still not turning his eyes from the parchment in front of him. "Do you plan on regaling me with your tales?"

"Shall we start with the halls of kings or the houses of ill repute?"

"At your leisure," he scoffed, although his chest felt tight.

"Jon Snow, your wife's half-brother, still wages his resistance in the north. But he has become obsessed with his fanciful imaginings beyond the Wall. Some say he, like his brother Bran, has lost his mind. Oh, and your brother Jaime, he's dead."

Tyrion finally looked up, and though he tried, he could not contain a spark of something that sprang to his eyes. Whatever his brother may have been as a person, he had saved Tyrion's life and sanity more than once. He had been the only family member that treated him as a man instead of just a dwarf. And though he imagined death in the wars might be his, the knowing of it fully twisted in his heart.

"Do you want to know how it happened?" Baelish led him along, not waiting for an answer before continuing. "It was your blushing bride's sister, the littlest wolf of the pack. The wild one, the assassin. She poisoned the guests of Lord Frey in revenge for the death of her family at the Red Wedding. Your unfortunate brother happened to be among them."

"And what's become of her?" he asked quickly.

"She was disemboweled, by order of the queen," Baelish responded. "It was quite the sight, slow done, like the butchering of deer, done with her own sword, her little needle…"

"Enough said," he blurted. Though the girl may have assassinated his brother, and many others, he could hardly lay the full blame on her, not after all his family had done to hers. She had seen her longing for justice warp into a lust for vengeance. And so she turned the wheel yet again, and became a part of a feud. An easy enough thing to do. But then his attention recollected itself. "Did you just call Cersei…queen?"

"Ah, yes, did I neglect to mention? They're dead, all dead…your father, your nephew Tommen, your brother. Your sweet little niece Myrcella was kidnapped and turned over to the Starks as a hostage years ago. You are the last male Lannister."

Tyrion did not respond, just turned his eyes back down to his parchment. He dreaded being told the details of their fates, of his hated father and the innocent children of Cersei, doomed to suffer for their mother's power struggles. He didn't want to know. His only focus now was that she would be wanting him, wanting him and his brood in her power. And then she would try to use them, one by one, and watch as they made desperate moves to save the others. And then crush them all.

"She must have made you a fine offer for you to remain under the Lannister banner, with the Targaryen claimant so very close by, licking up the sea with dragon fire."

Now Baelish seemed genuinely surprised, and Tyrion was gratified by the look of being caught off-guard smearing his face.

"You see, my clever player, here in the higher climes we hear…rumors, and rumors of rumors…wisps in the wind, that is all to be sure…but I have long smelt dragon smoke, very distant at first, but now…yes, I do believe it is getting closer to your own landed nest." Tyrion leaned forward a little. "Are you not afraid of getting burnt at all?"

"You know me, Lannister," he remarked. "I know how to play."

"Moving your piece from square to square until you are finally run off the board?"

"If it ever happens."

"Oh, it will happen. All things happen as they were meant, Little Finger."

"And perhaps I believe you were meant to come with me," Baelish offered.

"Do you think you could take me back peaceably?" Tyrion challenged. "Do you think you, a littler man than I, could cause me to bow to your schemes?"

"Don't tell me you thought it wouldn't chase you down from without, or pull you back from within," Baelish hissed. "I know you, half-man, and how you operate. You had your blade of wit, and knew well how to make it sting. Don't tell me you have forgotten how to play the game. You're too good at it, I'm afraid."

"No, not forgotten," Tyrion rasped. "I could never forget it. But I could choose. I could choose to end my part in the game. I could decide that I had had enough, while there was still enough of me left to lead another kind of life. I could choose not to become like you, Baelish."

"I do not believe I have done so terrible. It's a hard game, a constant gamble on a knife's edge of winning or dying, but it has served me well. I have climbed where you have sunk."

"Yes, you have climbed, because climbing is all you can see. Just the rungs you cling onto, and pull yourself up on, always daring the chasm to swallow you. Because you don't believe in anything else…you don't _know_ anything else. You must always keep climbing, up and up, with no destination in sight. You will never be satisfied, never be able to close your eyes in death, at peace."

"Perhaps I do not intend to die," he retorted.

"What? Afraid I shall torment you in hell, the demon monkey and all that?" Tyrion smiled slightly in spite of himself.

"Perhaps I shall tell death 'not yet', for every day that passes…"

"Death is a lady. She cannot be held off forever."

"Perhaps, if death is female, she might desire more female companionship than male."

Tyrion eyes narrowed, and there was fire in them. "Do not test me, Baelish."

He snorted. "You, half-man?"

"Yes, me, the half-man," he affirmed. "Remember, the reach of my arm is long because my mind is sharp. Knowledge is still power. And I can kill. I have tasted blood in my day, and I am not afraid to taste it again. If you bring even a semblance of harm to my wife or daughters, know well that you will suffer for it."

"Ah, yes, your daughters," Little Finger repeated. "I met them earlier. Your oldest little lion cub was playing with a stick, out in the woods. I showed her how a stick could easily be severed. You really should give her a sword of her own. It seems to be her deepest desire."

Tyrion's eyes narrowed. "What has she to do with you?"

"Maybe you should ask what I have to do with her," he altered it slightly. "You've kept too much from the girl. She needs someone to…guide her…"

Before Tyrion could respond, he heard an awkward pattering in the hallway, and the voice of a sobbing child, "Papa, Papa!"

His eyes flashed to the doorway, and he saw Caitey, blood staining her dress and tears in her eyes as she blurted out, "Sophie…he took her away…"

Tyrion froze, then started towards his daughter, fright caught in his throat.

Baelish saw the surge of panic, and smiled. "Never fear, little father; it's only dog's blood."

A tingle of relief, and of disgust, and impending calamity. "Caitey, go find your mother," he choked, seeing how terrified his child looked, and being unable to comfort her in the presence of such a man as this. She seemed too distraught to respond for a moment, then finally did, staggering out into the hall.

Then he focused again on his adversary. "What of Sophie? Have you dealt her ill?" Tyrion's voice was pale yet poisonous, drained of energy it seemed, yet coursing with an undercurrent that might take down the whole world with him.

"No ill to her that is not already within her," he sneered. "She is rather like you, rather like your father before you. A little lion, with claws…"

"Baelish," he growled, getting out from behind the desk. "If I am put in your debt, I will repay it, down to the last coins over your eyes. You know that much of me."

"Think of it, half-man," Little Finger began. "Perhaps I am acting in the best interests of your brood. The younger one may be not be worth much, but the oldest one seems to have inherited her mother's comely face and form. In four or five years, I see no reason why a landed lord in a prominent house should not like to lay his hands on her…if she's still in one piece…"

"When my daughters come of age, they shall have husbands who will be deserving of their love," he growled. "Do you think I would ever gamble with their future like my family gambled with Sansa's and mine, for the sake of politics?"

Just then, Sansa appeared at the door, her dress now stained from the blood that was on Caitey's dress, and her eyes fixating on Little Finger. There was both a mist and a fire in those eyes. Her hand flew to her mouth, clenched in a fist, a fighting fist.

"You, you…" she spat out, "you touched her…you hurt…my child… _you_ …"

There was a look in Baelish's eyes that almost resembled wistfulness. "A mother wolf," he whispered, and made to touch Sansa's cheek. "I have loved them well…"

With all her might, she struck Baelish in the mouth with that fist, and he staggered back against the wall.

"Sansa, don't!" Tyrion shouted, going to her side. "He has Sophie…"

"Wisely said, little man," the stricken man snarked, wiping away the blood from his lip. "No harm will come to her if you use your usual intelligence to serve you in this situation…no, don't try to follow me out; my men are with her, and if I do not return to them, things might devolve rapidly." He arched an eyebrow. "Expect a messenger to meet you to discuss terms at midday, by the lake across the woods." Then he turned and strode out of the room.

"No! I won't let it happen again, I won't let it happen to my family again…" Sansa was crumpled on the ground now, sobbing in shock.

Tyrion gripped her arm roughly. "Sansa, stop, you must stop, one must _think_ …"

"No, one must _strike_ …"

"Strike, without thought, and our girl dies."

Sansa had her hand pressed over her belly, as if to suppress pain, and shuddered.

"Don't you see, it is the only way…oh, Sansa, listen to me…"

Her eyes were glazing from the horror, and she leaned back against the floor, her breathing strangled. "Not again…not again…" Her one hand was lying outstretched from her body and shaking now. The other was still bunched in a fist, again pressing against her lips, her teeth.

Tyrion seized it away from her mouth, and slowly pried it open, kissing her palm. He saw blood on her quivering lip, where her teeth had bit through, and wiped it off with his thumb. "Sansa…hear me…we _will_ get her back."

"That's what my mother used to say…that we'd all be back together…" she choked. "It never happened …"

"But I am a Lannister, and I can play their game with the same blades as they use," he stated.

"No," she blurted. "No, no…You can't, you can't…I'll lose you both…they'll take you back and destroy you…I can't bear it again…not after so much…no, no…"

"Sansa, I've always known…known it might come to this…" He leaned down close to her. "You must trust the whole of me now…trust me to fight as I know how…with the mind…"

"You'll go back," he sobbed. "You'd let them take you back for her sake…"

"Sansa, you must trust…"

"No…I…I can't…"

"Yes, you can…you _will_ …" He pressed his lips into hers, his body feeling the rising and falling of her own, convulsed with tension. He felt her breathing into him, crying into him, breast against breast, and he let his hands caress her body until some relaxation, some comfort could be brought to her. He was kissing her neck, and massaging her breasts, and she moaned.

"It will come right, Sansa," he whispered. "They can't pull us apart, they can't…I won't let them…"

But even as Tyrion said these things, he felt his own eyes burn with the fear of uncertainly and the pain of some looming violence that always had its beak open for him and the ones he loved. He knew she could not bear another tragedy. She was too fragile, made so by a lifetime of loss. So he would have to play for all he was worth. Play it hard, play it cold, play it up to the hilt. He had to play though it might break him. For all their sakes.


	23. Chapter 22: End Game

**Greetings, everyone. Just to give you all a little heads up, this chapter does involve sexual assault and several character deaths. It's definitely what I would characterize as a bitter-sweet, as some good things happen, but not easily or without loss. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it for what it is! Blessings, The Authoress**

22: End Game

When Baelish arrived early at the lakeside, he found not Tyrion, but Sansa waiting for him. Her eyes were hungry, her mouth taut, like a leery mother wolf watching the hunter who threatened her cubs.

"My lady," the man addressed her with mock courtesy and a bow, "what an exceedingly pleasant surprise. You must know you please my eyes so much more than your lord husband…"

"Little Finger, what do you want?" Sansa demanded bluntly. "Have we not all suffered enough from this madness?"

"Not any more mad than your bearing a dwarf's children." He took a step closer to her, and made to touch her chin. "Such a good little mother."

She closed her eyes. "Stop."

He smiled strangely. "You're living a lie, Sansa Stark. Living a lie with a liar in your bed. Do you think the same blood does not run in his veins as always did? The same devious mind at work, the same inclinations…?"

"You're one to talk, Baelish," she hissed.

"I am not here pretending to play house and turning my back on what I can make myself," he countered. "I am not shaming myself with a false show of sanctity." He shook his head at her dress, comparatively simple to what he had last seen her in, back in her youth in Westeros. "Oh sweet, homely little housewife. You should be proud of yourself, you who once would be queen."

"You may serve your precious queen until she is burnt up in dragon fire," she stated, her voice blazing. "I want more than you have to offer, for all your pride."

"I not only have pride," he chortled. "I make things happen."

"You can have it all," she shot back, "your power of dirt. It does nothing to create and everything to destroy."

He chuckled and walked around her. "Does he know that you're here, my lady?"

She shook her head. "I…don't want you to touch him." She faced him boldly. "I demand that you take me to my daughter."

"You're turning yourself over to me, then? To do with as I please?"

"To do with me what you would do to others," she countered, gripping him hard by the shoulders. "Cersei would want me…she could use me as a hostage, to treat with my brother in the north…"

"You think highly of yourself, do you not?"

"If there are so few Lannisters, how many Starks do you think are left?" Her eyes narrowed. "We are rare commodities, Baelish."

"Yes, you are." He seized her by the wrists, and pressed his lips against her own. She squirmed away and spit in his face. He smiled strangely. "Such spirit. Just like your mother."

"Don't ever speak about my mother," she blurted.

"You're right, she was too much the fool," he replied. "She preferred the stupid nobility of your father, and look where it got the both of them."

"My father…he was a man!" she shouted. "And you? What have you ever been?"

"A man, as well, my lady Sansa," he assured quietly. "Or did you never think men could be like me?"

She shuddered. "Yes, then," she admitted, almost sadly. "You are a man indeed, or one that one may become if lost to even himself."

"As much as I'd love to philosophize with you at length, I believe you have more pressing concerns." He pulled a length of cloth from out of his vest. "You want to see your daughter, don't you? Want to see her keep her health?"

"Do not torture me, Baelish," she hissed.

"Of course not," he refuted, and swiftly started tying the cloth around her eyes. "I shan't keep you in suspense a moment longer. Now come along, my lady, and let me be your guide."

She knew in her heart and mind the danger of this, of what she had done. She knew rapidly that Tyrion would think her a stupid fool for it, but she was not him. She could not live on keen analysis; she was sniffing out her own, with the blazing instinct of any animal mother, with the wild loyalty of any Stark. She knew that often enough such loyalty had brought ruin to her family…but she could not help herself any more than she could sit idly by.

And so she felt him pulling her along by the arm. She felt underbrush tangle in her dress and scratch her legs. She felt the whip of branches in her face. She felt moistness and then sogginess in the earth beneath her.

"Best take off your shoes, my lady," she heard her captor suggest.

"No," she refused.

"Modest, eh?"

She felt him splash mud in her face, down her dress. She heard him laugh.

"Now the old Sansa I knew would have reacted in panic to that," he noted. "You really have grown up, haven't you?"

She felt him draw closer to her, his breath near her neck.

"I like the way you've grown up," he whispered, and Sansa felt sick.

"Take me to my daughter," she demanded with as much authority as she could muster, though her heart had started to pound. After all, he really could do anything with her. She didn't even know where she was.

But to her surprise he relented. "Your wish is my command," he assured courteously.

So onward they went, in what Sansa was sure was a circle, yes, a circle…taking her back to far too many memories, far too many scenes she thought she had left behind her long before. She was always being taken away by force it seemed, in hopes of finding something precious to her, only to have it slip through her fingers. But she would have to risk it again, nevertheless…

Then she sensed she was no longer in the woods, no…she was in the open air and then…being guided down hard stairs. There was more wetness beneath her as she was pulled along, and her free hand brushed up against a hard, cold surface. When Baelish finally took the blindfold off of her, her mind rushed fast to recognize her surroundings even as her eyes struggled to adjust to the dark. They were in…some sort of tunnel that led out into a dungeon.

"Where are we?" she demanded.

"Where you kindly requested you be taken," he asserted, then pushed her in farther.

Her eyes adjusted to what seemed to be a cellar, with both barrels and cauldrons lying about, as if used for brewing, or heating, or some form of alchemy. She also saw stairs inside, leading up to somewhere, though she knew not where. Then she saw soldiers, hired men, three of them, all with unshaven faces and rough leather clothes. And off to side she saw Sophie leaned up against a wall in the corner. When she saw her mother, she sprang to her feet.

"Mama…"

"Sophie!"

She rushed towards her daughter, but Baelish seized her by the arm. She again made to slap him, but he was quicker than her this time, blocked the blow, and instead struck her across the face. She blinked but did not turn away, only steeled herself silently, like a statue of a warrior queen. She had come a long way from when she had been tormented and struck in the presence of King Joffrey so many years before.

"You are a terror for children, Baelish, not for me," she stated with as much confidence as she could manage. "Now let me go to my child…"

Then Baelish took a hidden knife out of his clothing and pressed it up against her throat, with a perverse smile on his face. He was taunting her, she knew that.

She glowered at him. "You will not kill me, Little Finger. You're too clever for that."

He chuckled. "No, but perhaps I might…nick you a little? Maybe give you a scar, to match your husband's?" He moved the knife up towards her cheek.

"You will not do that, either," she stated. "My face…is too much like another's."

"Then perhaps I might nick another little face…" In an instant, he had seized Sophie, and pressed a blade to her cheek.

"No, stop!" Sansa shrieked, jerking forward and being yanked back by one of the soldiers. She regretted her reaction in an instant, for she knew Little Finger had caught her at her weakest, had her where he wanted her.

He smiled. "You'll do anything for your child, won't you?"

She stared him down. "Put away your knife…"

"Won't you, my lady?" He pressed the blade a little harder and a trickle of blood descended down the child's cheek, although she would not cry out.

"Don't do anything, Mama," Sophie warned through gritted teeth. "Don't…"

"Oh, my little cub, a wolf mother cannot help herself," Baelish noted, "can she?"

Sansa couldn't stop herself from shaking her head.

He pushed Sophie away and put his hand under Sansa's chin. "Come with me, dear sweet Sansa. We'll forget about such nasty things."

She felt a shiver travel up her spine. She had to stop him, had to stall him, by whatever means necessary…oh…

With that, he dragged both mother and daughter into an adjacent chamber and closed the door. "Now, Sansa, we can give your daughter a little education," he remarked wryly, "and maybe teach your husband a little lesson too. Mustn't let him become too greedy, what?"

He had forced her down on the bed now. She squirmed. "Now, now…don't do that…you might enjoy this more than your realize, after bedding a dwarf so long. And your child's face is not easy for me to cut off…"

She felt a surge of strange memories from her marriage night, when Tyrion had been her worst fear. Oh, Tyrion, dear Tyrion…how time had a way of transforming one's fears into still more fears, so alike and so different…would she ever be free from the garment of fear of defilement?

"It's always summer under the sea…"

She heard him singing, perversely, as he unbuckled his sword belt, and it slipped down onto the ground. She winced at the clacking sound, and felt his body lowering onto hers.

"The birds have scales, the fish take wing…"

She felt him pulling open the top of her dress, and his hands sliding across her bare breasts. She tightened as he gripped them, tears piercing her eyes. It hurt…was he trying to tear them off?

"The stones crack open, and the water burns…"

Her breath caught, and then his mouth crashed into hers, seeming to suck out whatever breath was left. She felt his own bare chest pressing down on her, and she wanted to scream, to bite, and she thought the pressure might break her ribs…

"The shadows come to dance, my love…the shadows come to play…"

She felt his hands on her throat, a mocking threat to stifle any cries for good, and then the heat of his mouth against her neck, and his ravenous breath beating against it.

"The shadows come to dance, my love…the shadows come to stay…" he smiled cruelly as he reached down beneath her skirt to force open her legs. "Your demon monkey is worth something to me now. The last of the Lannister line. And you've just made it all the easier for me to take him back…"

Suddenly, Baelish stifled a moan and tightened, shock contorting his features as something long and sharp thrust through his back.

Sansa did not wait to find out what was happening, but hit him hard across the mouth and pushed him off of her. Sitting up, to her astonishment, she found her daughter Sophie standing there, the handle of Little Finger's sword clenched in her fist, the point thrust through his lungs. She had a mixture of satisfaction and disgust on her face, as he doubled over on the bed, wheezing as the blood dribbled out of his mouth.

 _Why was she worried suddenly that her daughter might be enjoying it too much? Might be trying to twist the blade deeper and deeper into the vile man to prolong the agony? Might be becoming another little Arya, the assassin, the assassinated?_

"Sophie," Sansa blurted breathlessly, "pull it out…pull it out of him…then run…"

"Mother…"

"Sophie go, make a run for the tunnel…"

"Not without you!"

Sansa pulled the top of her dress together and stood up from the bed. She took her daughter's hand in hers. "Pull it out…" she pleaded in a whisper.

As soon as the thing was done, she seized her daughter by the hand and drew her away to the far side of the room. Then her wolf-ears pricked up, and she heard the sound of a voice she knew, amidst the soldiers' laughter.

"A lion, a wolf, and an apple," she was saying. "That is what your fate holds in store."

"What's the apple for?" a soldier demanded. "What's it mean?"

"Perhaps it holds the seeds of many things yet to be revealed," she offered.

"What things, old woman?"

"Things that bite," she responded.

"Be careful we don't bite, hag," one of them snarled. "We should have killed you as soon as you came down those stairs…"

Sansa slowly opened the door and saw it was indeed Sauriel. Her heart skipped a beat, not sure what to think. Where were they, anyway? What was happening?

"You would not kill one who bore a healer's crystal," she responded calmly. "Nor one who could stir the contents of these cauldrons. You are far too…how shall we say it? Superstitious…"

Just then Sansa spied her husband on the stairs, and saw that he was armed with a crossbow. Quickly, she decided it best to use herself as a diversion. So she slipped out from behind the door and pulled her daughter out with her, though still keeping her safely blocked by her body. The scuffling alerted the two men, whose eyes shot to where she was, but Sauriel was faster. She had thrown something in their faces…Sansa could imagine it was some type of herb she had been taught to grind into powder, the kind that left a man choking and dazed if thrown up into the face.

The shots rang out in fast succession. The first man was down before he could even draw his weapon. The second seized his bow, but had a shaft in him before he could release his own bolt. The third had his weapon primed and ready to release. But he had forgotten the old woman beside him, and the gnarled walking stick leaned up against her stool, which promptly struck between his shoulder and his neck, knocking him off balance. By then Tyrion had already reloaded, and launched his final shaft.

"The seeds of many things," Sauriel repeated, almost sorrowfully, as the stricken man died, stretched out upon the table in front of her. The sight of the blood caused her to close her healer's eyes tight, as if binding herself to a future vision, a cutting one…

"Tyrion…" Sansa panted breathlessly, rushing forward.

"What in the name of the gods caused you to go out? What the bloody damn hell?!"

But she could not answer his anger all at once, just blurted, "How…how did you find us?"

"Thank Caitey," Sauriel noted. "She happened to be on the lower floor, nearest the grate, and heard voices…"

"What grate? I don't…"

"You're in your own home, Sansa," Tyrion blurted, somewhat exasperated. "Or at least the dungeon of it, led out from a tunnel. The last place Baelish ever thought we might look…" Then his face blanched, caution narrowing his eyes, as he saw his wife's torn upper dress.

Sansa swallowed, flushing with shame, but before she could say anything Sophie spoke up.

"I killed him, Papa, for what he did…" Her voice was half in triumph, half in terror. "I killed him with a sword…"

"Where?" her father croaked.

She pointed in the direction of the adjacent room.

When he entered, he found a blood-soaked Baelish struggling to sit up in the bed.

"Did you…touch her?" Tyrion hissed. "Did you…touch my wife?"

The stricken man grinned cynically, blood staining his teeth. "Possessive, aren't you…little man?"

Tyrion cocked his bow at the man's heart.

"Go on, half-man, do it…"

Tyrion kept his arrow aimed. He wanted to do it, like a hunger deeper than almost any he had known, yearning to gnaw through the flesh and bone of him, to kill in him all that was evil outside himself, inside himself. He could do it now, do it and be done with it, and feel justified in it, satisfied in it.

He could be a Lannister again.

He could bring the dagger back to his hand, the dagger he had thrown away, long, long ago.

"Go on, I know what you are, you can't get away from it…" Baelish made a twisted, pained grin. "You and I are the same…in the end…"

The same…the same…?

These words sunk inside and twisted within him. Oh, the stall, the split-second stall, and then turning his eyes to Sansa who was standing behind him, as if seeking out her own feelings, her own thoughts on what he was doing, or not doing…then he saw her eyes flash wide.

"Tyrion… _knife_!"

His eyes shot back to Baelish, with a dagger extended, the secret kind all those at court learned to carry, ready to throw it at Sophie, in one last petty act of retribution. Then everything happened so fast, in brutal succession.

The knife flew from Little Finger's hand at the same instant the bolt flew from Tyrion's bow, striking the man through the throat, and with a gurgling gasp, ending forever his upward climb. But the blade was already in motion, cutting through the air to its destination…

Sansa screamed, and Tyrion turned in horror, seeing that the knife had not struck his daughter, but was lodged deep within Sauriel's breast, after blocking the child just in time. The woman looked at the weapon protruding from her, smiled a slight, grim, knowing smile to herself, and then proceeded to pull it out. The blood poured out in a stream, and she sank to ground, with Sophie standing over her, shocked into silence.

"Sauriel!" Sansa rushed to her side. "No, oh, no, no…"

The old wise woman opened her eyes, and met the younger woman's. "There is no need to look so, little bird," she whispered. "All things foreseen must come in their good time."

"But not for you…not over this…" Sansa blurted. "You had nothing to do with…with this…"

"Or everything to do with it," she countered weakly. "Perhaps…I was sent…a coin, a lion, a wolf…and apple, red as blood…"

"I should have killed him…when I had the chance," Tyrion choked, struggling to contain himself.

"No, no," Sauriel rasped. "You felt pity for him. It is no mean thing. You saw him for what he was…and that saved you."

"Sauriel, please…please don't leave us now…" Sansa's voice cracked, as she pressed her sash against the gaping wound.

"It is meant to be," she said softly. "My life has not been my own…since the day your life was brought back to you…"

"What…?"

"It is as it should be. You are as I have been, and I am what you will be. The healer's crystal is yours alone to carry now. Wear it well." She reached out her hand over her belly. "May the feuding die here. Only female children shall leave this womb..."

And so it was that Sauriel died.


	24. Chapter 23: Picking Up the Pieces

Chapter 23: Picking Up the Pieces

The following few days and nights felt stretched without severing, it felt like some shattered suspense that still refused to end. It just slowly melted into a numbing, tearless grief. Sauriel was gone. And somehow, the whole world seemed unprotected now. Tyrion and Sansa were not truly and utterly alone. They seemed unable to come together in the same place, and proved woefully inadequate to comforting their traumatized children.

Ultimately though the time came for him to see her, together, and yet alone. But something inside him felt jagged, crippling. It was something gnawing at him as he entered her chamber carefully, and sensed the silence of the place, the silence of his wife, of her inner world all gone quiet, lying in the bed without words or even thoughts, not so very much. Just the shadows, and the glint of red-gold, and the flash of watery blue…

"Sansa…" He was shaking with emotion. "Do you wish me undone, woman?"

"You'd have been doubly undone…had it been Sophie taken from you," she whispered.

"Damn you, have you no trust in me at all? After all this time gone by?"

"In this you could not have helped it," she croaked. "It runs deeper than you know. I know that, even if you don't…"

"You are wrong if you think the depth of me…flows anywhere…but to you," he choked. "It always has, and I knew…our fates were tied. You are…the only thing…" He swallowed "…that could kill me…"

She started to sit up now. "Kill you…?"

"Yes. Many times now…I have known…my death is tied to you, as much as my life. Each time…I almost lose you…I die…a little more. It's a terrible thing, Sansa, because…it's so slow. It's seeing the shadow behind me, in the mirror, the old curse…the one _she_ laid on me…"

"Do not say that," she stopped him, pressing her hand to her forehead. "Do not speak of such things…"

"Cersei seems to reach us though we would have them far away. We both know that."

She turned. "You think I am any less tied? If you be cursed, than so am I."

"You could not be cursed," he murmured. "You did no wrong, nor your kin…not to bear death around you like this. Do not make pretense to take it upon yourself…"

"Kin has naught to do with it."

"I…wonder at it." He stared out blankly towards the window, gray with the slightest sliver of moonlight. "Perhaps some dreams filter down to us, through the glass of time…we have them in the thickness or weakness in our blood, like…like the color in hair, in eye…I wonder at it, in me…"

"No!" The intensity of her voice jolted him a little. "I know you more than anyone…I know the depths of you, and I know…" She looked at him straight. "Yes, you are a Lannister, and our children are Lannisters after you. But there is no shame in that. A name, any name, is only as good or bad as the one who carries it. Whatever traits come with it…they bend to the will of the man who bears them."

He raised an eyebrow. "Or the woman?"

"You make pretense to assume you alone understand your child!"

This bore into him suddenly, and he bit back with anger. "Well, have you not acted that way long enough? Is that not why you went in my stead, even now? Because you feared my love for her would outweigh mine for you? Because you took it upon myself to assure my wits would not be mangled by too-dear affection? That I should give myself up without a struggle for her?"

"I doubted not that you would struggle," she choked, "but in the end, they found your armor's weak point, and they could pierce it if they so chose."

"And it was less your weakness than mine?"

She was silent for a long time, then confessed bitterly, "I am not a Lannister."

He shuddered. "You think we are a pair, her and I, not quite to be trusted, though perhaps to be protected," he realized lowly. "You say there is no shame in the name, Sansa, but do you not hold that shame in your heart? Do you not see it living on in us? In her, somehow more than Caitey, for all her inheritance of mine?"

She turned her head towards him. "She tasted a kill today. She…enjoyed it."

"How can you dare to judge her so?" he spat at her. "That was less man than weasel, butcher's mean and no more, and hell's teeth, he tried to ride you, and know not how far he traveled…"

"Tyrion!"

"In truth, my lady, you've told me naught!"

"Is it for my wellbeing that you should ask it, or for your pride that you should demand it, my lord?"

"Do not evade the question by testing my manhood!" he shouted.

"It is not your manhood I am testing," she shot back, "but what this attachment between you and I is made of…is it love or a crutch?"

"Damn you! What more have I to prove to you?!" With that, in a burst of fury, he intentionally knocked over a vase on a stand within his reach. Glass shattered, water flowed, and the last red flowers of the autumn lay bruised upon the floor.

Sansa jerked at the suddenness of the rage, remembering the intensity of his temper that she had seen so little of for so many years. She struggled to maintain an air of calm. "Talk to your daughter," she said with a certain quiet authority that might have been used by a queen.

"Now you send me away from you like a school boy who has misbehaved…?"

"Now I send you like a father to speak with your daughter," she stated with an edge. "Perhaps you may yet speak with a wisdom I have not reached."

He opened his mouth to retort, but her choice of words made him think better of it. Slowly, reluctantly, he turned and left the chamber.

When he made his way towards her room, he saw Caitey sitting on the small bench in the hall. His daughter had never looked so tiny to him before, all alone, sitting outside her sister's room in the dark. It cut him, reminding him too much of himself at that age, desperate for affection so much that when deprives of it, he turned in on himself, and took shelter in the security of a lonely little world.

Build up armor, that had been his answer, his only chance, so the sting would no register. But it always did, anyway. His mother's blood in him, he surmised. Cynicism was the easier route, but one he could not strictly keep to, work his woe. Being a would-be cynic with a romantic's heart was a blessing and a curse. It was a barb stuck deep beneath the skin, and wound that would never disappear.

Yet sometimes it gave him strange flashbacks to the feel of his mother's old nightgown he had found in a dark chamber when a little child, and foolishly brought it to his own nursery, and curled up with it, and drew pictures of dragons on old scrap parchment and felt very happy…until his father found out, and called him a little beast, and tore up his pictures, and took away the nightgown, never to be seen again, and locked him up alone in the tower in the dark. And here now was his own child alone, in the dark…

"Caitey," he rasped, "what are you doing?"

She looked at him blankly. "I am thinking…if I should go in…to see Sophie…" She blinked. "But I don't think she would like that…no one wants to talk to me now, not even mama…and Sauriel is gone…" She bit her lip and looked down, almost too interiorly numb to give way to those tears that might bring relief.

Tyrion swallowed, suddenly wondering which daughter he had been sent to see. "I want to talk to you, Caitey," he stated softly.

"No, you don't," she said back to him, and it cut him to the core. "You never…want to talk to me…because…" Now tears did start to come to her eyes.

"What…?" he questioned, almost directing it at himself in self-accusation.

"I'm…I'm too small…"

He shut his eyes tight, tight, and clenched his fist in the dark. "I am small," he choked, "not you, lovely, not you…"

The next moment they were clinging onto each other and silently crying, and Tyrion realized how much see seemed to relishing the physical contact, and realizing how little of it he had given her in the past, as if afraid some more of his disease might rub off on her. And he vowed inside himself to do better.

"I'll talk to you, Caitey, I'll talk to you whenever you want…" he struggled not to sob. "I stay with you now if you want…"

Then with a maturity beyond her years, she pulled back and said, "No, Papa, Sophie needs you. She's too quiet. Better talk to her, hmm?"

Tyrion nodded and squeezed her a final time before parting.

Finally making his way to the end of the hall, he went on to his other daughter's room, and found Sophie her lying in her bed, her face turned to the wall, the candle on the table still burning. He heard her breathing, and knew she had been crying. He felt himself a very poor parent for not having come sooner. He walked closer to the bed, and knew she could hear him, would know who it was the by the distinct sound of his uneven steps. But still she hesitated from turning, from making contact.

He was right next to the bed now. "Sophie?" He reached out and touched her hair.

She turned to him slowly, and he saw the tears down her face. "Yes, papa?"

Tyrion swallowed hard, and pathetically slipped to old silly things, desperate desires to be forgiven for neglecting his own child. "Still…still want a sword? I would get you one, if you wanted it."

Sophie shut her eyes tight. "I…don't know, I…" Suddenly she sat up and flung her arms around her father's neck. "Oh, papa…"

Tyrion squeezed her tight as she started to sob. "Oh, Sophie…it's alright, it will be alright…"

"No, I killed him, I did…" She clenched her fists. "And I thought…I thought I quite liked it, when I was doing it…I was proud of it…"

Tyrion suppressed a feeling of strange dread. "He was an evil man," he assured her. "You did it to protect your mother…"

"I did it…because…I could!" She clutched tighter. "I wanted…to prove it…"

He paused, wondering at her Lannister blood, through him, wondering at what was going through her mind now, wondering…if Cersei lived on through her…or perhaps himself…yes, it was himself he most feared…

"So…have you proved it now?" he rasped.

She was quiet. "I think…I killed Sauriel, didn't I?"

"No, no," he assured her brokenly. "No, she…she did that of her own accord. That was just the way she was. She was a light to us, and the light has gone back behind the mountains now, like at sunset, though it's still burning, deep down inside. Some rays of her sun are in us now, and we must live to bring them to life. You are that light, dear. She did it to save you for us…"

"She did it…to show me."

"Show you what, Sophie?"

She leaned back from him. "Show me…what it is. It's not so fine a thing as I thought. It's…it's horrible."

"Oh…" He breath caught with some sort of relief.

"And I did it…I _killed_ …"

"Sophie, listened to me," he rasped. "Now, hear me out…you did what had to be done, no matter what you may have been thinking, or what you were feeling…"

"But it was the thinking the feeling…that's…that's I mean to say…that I _killed_. And I can't…get away from it…I…I dream about it, and I'm afraid…"

"Shh, Sophie…" he quieted her, gathering her into his arms again. "There's nothing to be afraid of anymore…"

"But I am afraid…of me!"

He began to understand on a much deeper level now. Yes, that sounded very much like something Sauriel might say….something she'd say about his own struggle with his demons.

"So you killed in your thoughts," he whispered, "and so have I, many times. Oh, child, you and I are much the same. But it's not…something that controls you, no…you are not a slave to thoughts, but our master of how you use them. When they take you to that place, you tell them…tell them, not today. And that's how we'll heal ourselves from it, and never go back to that place again…"

He sensed someone watching them, and turned to see Sansa at the door. The look in her eyes already told him she had heard everything she needed to, and there were tears in her eyes. The next thing he knew his wife had flown over, and soon she was hugging her crying daughter fiercely, petting her hair, and telling her it would all be alright.

Then Tyrion saw Caitey standing in the doorway looking on. He took a step back as he nudged her towards the bed. "Go on, little one," he whispered. "Go to your sister."

The last think he saw as he backed out into the hallway was Sansa helping Caitey up onto the bed, and Sophie crushing her into a sobbing embrace.

When Sansa returned to their chamber shortly after, Tyrion was lying on the chaise. It was something so strangely reminiscent, both of them just stared at each other for a very long time.

"My lord," she chided him. "You'll break you're back over there. Will you never accept that you have a bed all your own?"

"Not _all_ my own," he noted carefully.

She looked down, and her half-playful tone became solemn. "Are you that loathe to share it one nearly defiled?"

His eyes flashed at her, but then seeing the look of genuine pain on her face, softened.

She went on, "Or is it more that I gave into doubts more than trust over the child of my own womb, and required the wisdom of another to see my own error?"

Then a silence reigned between them, watching each other. At last she turned with a sigh, and slipped back into bed.

Very gingerly, he got up and went to her, and lay down alongside her, at a distance. The time passed, though neither one slept, trying to very quiet, as if to fool the other. Oh, yes, he tries so very hard to be quiet, motionless, breathless, until he felt her touch. He let her eyes drift to her hand, lily-white, and up her arm, up to her bare shoulder. "Do you know," she started tremulously. "I would rather take a knife to myself…than to go on without you, either through death or…the breaking of a bond…"

"Sansa…"

"Had he taken me fully, that's what I would have done …I would not have let myself live to shame you…"

"Say no more of such things…"

"I would have put the blade through my own belly…my own breast…"

"Stop, stop," he murmured, and tried to turn away, for the tears were coming up in his eyes. "What do you think I am made of…?"

Her hand moved to his face, his scar, and felt the saltwater running along the dent. "Flesh and blood…like me…"

"And what does mortal flesh and blood seek but to find love, and…give it back? Where's the place for pride in that? Where's the place for anything else at all…?"

She leaned up, and let her light gown slip further down, below her breasts. Then she turned, to let him reach, and at his caress, she melted into him. Lips and tongues on each other's skin, and the rushing of the blood beneath it, and the mouths, hot, breathing hard into each other. It was intense, and grasping, and holding, and a fight to be part of each other again in defiance of almost being torn apart forever. They had not made love with the same level of passion for years, and in some ways it felt like a second consummation.

When it was done, she lay her head against his chest, nuzzled under his chin. "What…if they come back for us…?"

His breath was heavy with quiet crying. "I do not know…but they must take our lives together…or not at all…they might cut body from soul, but not…soul from soul…"

"If they were to take me first," she whispered, "I would wait for you to come for me, without food or drink…I would keep death's vigil…before they could make use of me." She closed her eyes. "And…you?"

His hand squeezed on her shoulder, and she could feel his own thoughts pricked, painfully, and then running numb. "They'd have killed the last Lannister then…for nothing of me left in this world could truly bear the name."

"And…our children?"

Tyrion swallowed. Oh, gods, were they being selfish, talking on like this, as if they were the only two in the world, that everything depended upon them. He closed his eyes, and knew too keenly what would happen to them if they were ever taken alive, taken by his sister. She would relish turning Sophie into a monster, and making Caitey suffer everything Tyrion had, and more. And he found himself praying they be killed instead of captured, and then felt himself overwhelmed by guilt for the prayer.

But he would not tell his wife any of it. No, never that. Even if she could read his mind, he would never speak such a thing with his tongue.

No, he just turned, and kissed her again, and said, "All will be well with them."

And she did not protest against it. It was a dream they had to cling to, that something pouring out of their love would pass into the future untarnished and unscathed.

And he knew as the window glinted he would rather live a lifetime of this pain, this unknowing cloud, this drowning in love to the point of death, than any security he might ask for, or any power, or any point of pride. He would rather take the risk, the cruel risk of gushing himself out into others, and letting himself be mortally wounded through it, yes, through his love her. For theirs was the love of two eyes, and one could not see in wholeness without the other.


	25. Chapter 24: Different Victories

**Well, at long last we've reached the last chapter of this Sanrion saga! There is going to be an epilogue following it, so stay tuned for that, but for all practical purposes we've reached the end of our journey with Sansa and Tyrion. Thank you so much to everyone who followed this tale and proved so encouraging over the years of it's development! I couldn't have done it without you all, and your friendship and support have been one of my favorite aspects of the process! I'm sorry when I dropped out of existence sometimes and there were large gaps in the time of chapter releases, but at least once it's all uploaded, readers will be able to have it in all one lump sum to peruse at their pleasure! Much love and many blessings! ~ The Authoress**

Chapter 24: Different Victories

A year had passed since the death of Sauriel. And while it seemed impossible at first, life had somehow managed to move on. No more evil had come to them, no further searches been made for the little family. Lord Thurandin grew older, with less strength of sight, less keenness of mind. Tyrion continued to pick up the slack, and was largely managing the castle affairs, the library, and the diplomacy with the villages on his own. Few could argue that he was good at what he did, and what small dreams he had of making the current generation of mountain children literate was coming to pass. Some now were old enough to go down into the valleys, to the ports, and try to forge a way from themselves with their new ability with letters and numbers.

One evening in mid-spring, Tyrion was working late in the library, organizing books high on a ladder, when he heard footsteps – manly footsteps – in the corridor. His jaw instantly tightened, and then the sound of metal being unsheathed make him whip his head around.

Upon seeing who it was, Tyrion's mouth fell open. "The bastard…"

John Snow, adorned in traveler's clothes, hovered the sword near his throat. "The half-man."

Tyrion sighed. "Touché." He started to climb down from the ladder.

"Stay where you are!" Snow bellowed.

"Although equal level eye contact may well be desirable, I don't believe we can have this…reunion to the fullest if I'm hanging off the side of a ladder…"

"Where is my sister? What have you done with her?"

"As for where she is, I believe the answer is outside gardening. As for what I've done with her…well, clearly if she's planting a garden outside, she's not locked up in the castle dungeon, or hanging from the walls in an iron cage…"

"Do not make sport of me, Lannister," her brother growled. "Those glass orbs in front of your eyes do nothing curb the tartness of your tongue that marks you out."

Tyrion grumbled and pulled off the primitive spectacles. "They were not exactly my preference," he stated. "A certain strong-willed Stark insisted on foisting them onto me. I am innocent of the outrage. And really, bastard, don't you think I would have more wits about me than that if I really took the notion to disguise my features? There is one thing about me: I'm not a pretty sight, but I am a memorable one."

"Someone would have to cut off your tongue to disguise you!"

"If you recall, cutting off a man's tongue doesn't prove he's a liar," Tyrion noted. "It just means you're afraid of what he might say."

"I do not fear lies," Snow declared, "but am only wary of your games. Now where can I find my…?"

"Tyrion, the handle on my rake broke; do you know where I can…?" Sansa was standing behind one of the book shelves, her long apron smudged with dirt, along with her hands and face. Her crystal blue eyes widened suddenly at the sight of the tall man with sword drawn. At first, she seemed not to recognize him, seemed to think yet another assault on their safety was upon them. Then her eyes glimmered, then softened, then melted into tears.

"Jon?" she whispered, and started to approach him slowly.

Jon Snow, himself struggling with the lump in his throat, dropped his sword with a clank on the ground and fell into an embrace with the sister he had long given up for dead.

"Jon…Jon…Jon!" She pressed her face against his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his neck and he turned about almost as if falling into a dance of remembrance after so long, so very long…

Just then Tyrion's gaze drifted to the threshold of the room, where he saw the figure of a young woman with a fur trimmed hood. She pulled it back, and golden hair cascaded over her shoulder. Her eyes met his, and she reached out her hands to him. Was it…could it be…?

"Myrcella…?" His throat tightened in disbelief at the site of his niece, he had long given up for dead. He had always been fond of her, recognizing in her all of her mother Cersei's beauty, but none of her cruelty. He took her hand in his. "Are you well? Have they…has he been…?"

"I have been treated with honor, uncle," she assured him. "My lord Snow would have it no other way." She smiled softly in the northern solder's direction, and Tyrion quickly read it. Had an alliance been made, he wondered? Then his eyes fell to her belly, and he noticed the size of it. It was the earliest stages, and yet he could detect them well enough…

" _His_?" Tyrion queried.

Myrcella nodded shyly.

Sansa had by now caught wind of this and came over to the girl. "Princess…I mean…I…" she stammered, clearly uncertain what title still stood with all the change.

"Queen, Sansa," Jon filled in. "Queen of the North."

Both Sansa and Tyrion's jaw fell open at this. The former hand of the king looked over his shoulder at Snow. "I believe…much has transpired since last we shared an acquaintance in service to the throne…"

"That we do, half man."

"Then do you think you possibly manage to do so in the garden? In spite of your rather rude entry, I suppose introducing you to your nieces would be in order."

His eyes widened. "Then you've…?"

"Quite obviously."

"Oh…"

"So, everyone…to the garden?" Tyrion gestured grandly towards the door.

"Er…yes…" Snow relented, finally sheathing his sword.

888

"Glad you came to find us?" Tyrion queried, walking with Jon Snow on the far side of the castle yard. "It was certainly impulsive of you under the…questionable circumstances."

"I made a vow to find my sister as soon as there was peace. And I trust Lord Davos to keep the peace for a spell. He's an honorable man and come to be well-respected in the North."

"So…are you going to explain what…?"

"I am still getting used to all this," Snow cut him off, obviously trying to talk about anything but more pressing matters. "You have children?"

Tyrion squinted impatiently. "No, they're mirages."

Snow rolled his eyes, and a slight smile played at the edge of his lips. "I like them, your daughters. The oldest is like Arya…a mix of her and you, really."

"She likes you too it seems," he noted.

As soon as Tyrion had managed to convince the now quite suspicious Sophie that Jon Snow was not in fact another spy come to do her family harm, she had asked her newfound uncle a variety of questions about the aunt she had never met, who Snow had instantly remarked she bore a resemblance to. Snow seemed to brighten just seeing an image of his favorite sister still alive and largely untouched by the horrors that had transformed her from a feisty yet still innocent youth to a hardened assassin with vengeance on her mind.

"And the younger one, she's like Sansa, and her mother," Jon stated. "She's aptly named."

"Even as a dwarf?" Tyrion blurted, frankly. "Would not your step-mother have…been revolted at the concept?"

He shrugged. "She loved Sansa enough…anything that was hers she would have loved. And besides her…" He exhaled. "Whatever she'd have thought, I'll tell you what I think. Because you've a fine intelligent child there. Those drawings she showed me, those things…they take skill. She'll make you proud, I think."

"She's already made me proud," Tyrion shot back, and he knew he meant it.

"Of course she has," Snow conceded mildly, slightly embarrassed by his misstep.

"Now enough about the children. You're hard testing my endurance. Tell me, Snow. Tell me the whole of it. What's happened in Westeros?"

"How much do you know already?"

"As much as I could piece together from Baelish's rantings, rumors of the dragon queen on my last trip to the city, and your presence here," he stated. "Clearly my sister found it ever harder to keep a good grip, and eventually, it slipped."

"Have you not heard of the Walkers?"

"The what?"

Jon exhaled. "The White Walkers."

"You mean from the fairy stories?"

"No!" He shook his head. "Damn it man, they were very real. I saw them…fought them, at the wall."

Tyrion gazed at him skeptically. "You're telling me these… _things_ tried to cross the wall?"

Jon was started to become exasperated. "Alright, you know about Daenerys. She…allied with us, in the North…"

"Against Cersei?"

"No, against the Walkers. Cersei was originally a part of the alliance."

Now Tyrion looked utterly disbelieving. "My sister…joined a Targaryen and Stark alliance?"

"Temporarily."

"Hence the marriage to Myrcella, who you held as hostage?"

"She wasn't so much a hostage by then," he mumbled awkwardly. "Just…a guest, as it were. But…yes our marriage served a purpose. Or at least we thought it did. But when he faced off against the Walkers, Cersei withheld her forces."

"I might have told you that part the story ahead of time, my naïve brother-in-law," he clucked. "But I assume you succeeded in spite of odds?"

"At heavy losses."

"So Daenerys played her part, I assume? Her dragons fought the walkers, and now she sits prettily upon the Iron Throne?"

Jon's eyes shot down. "No."

"No?"

"I mean…yes, her dragons fought the Walkers. But then…I fought her dragons."

Tyrion looked flushed now. "How…did this come about?" he croaked.

Snow was silent for a long time. "She wanted to burn King's Landing for what Cersei had done. She wanted…her revenge. But it was more like…madness. I saw it happening, a little at a time."

"From what I had heard of the daughter, I hoped she would prove different from the father," Tyrion responded. "They called her the breaker of chains, the one who speaks for the voiceless."

"She might have been different, once," Jon noted, almost wistfully. "Perhaps she wanted to do right, perhaps she thought herself destined to do us all good. It was just too much power for her to wield. I wonder if it was too much power for anyone to wield."

Tyrion squinted. "Did the Mother of Dragons hold power of you?"

"What are you saying?" Snow snapped.

"Did you bend the knee to her?"

Snow shook his head. "The North would see no foreigner rule them."

"The only king in the north is a king whose name is Stark," Tyrion recited quietly. "But might not a Stark find himself…bound to other things than his people alone?"

"To a point," he shrugged.

"Daenerys was your ally, you fought alongside her against the armies of the dead, and without her, all of Westeros would have been frozen over in an age of ice," Tyrion recounted, reading the man's heart with deadly precision.

"And with her all of Westeros would have consumed by dragon fire," he spit out.

"But your heart was not?"

Jon gazed over at Sansa walking in the garden with Myrcella for a moment. "You love my sister. I thought it might just be lust at first, knowing you as I did."

"You flatter me," Tyrion chuckled.

"No, I can tell," he assured. "Such is a rare thing in this world. She's fortunate to have you." He grew thoughtful, reflective. "I loved a Wildling girl at the wall. Her name was Ygritte. But it all fell to ruin. She died with an arrow in her…" His voice ebbed out. "I admired Daenerys, I had hope in her. I hoped she might strive for something different than the others. I hoped to she might break the wheel. I wanted to believe in something…"

"But you could not all the way?"

"Not when she wished to use the dragon fire to compel the bending of the knee." He looked to the ground. "Not when she wished to use it…on King's Landing."

Tyrion gazed at him, almost in disbelief. "You would fight your ally to save Cersei's city? The city of your mortal enemies?"

"They're not all my enemies," he muttered. "Just people, no better or worse than I. And even those who are all the worse…even they don't deserve a death like that. Or if they do, I would not be the one to lay it on their doorstep, nor let it be laid there without an effort to stop it."

"Then a bastard killed a queen," Tyrion noted airily. "How did you manage it?"

Jon looked up. "Shall I confide in you, Lannister?"

"I highly doubt I have anyone with whom I might betray your confidence for advancement," he twitted.

"That is not the thing," he replied. "It is…from Sansa."

"What is it she would say that she might not know?"

"That I might wield the power of dragon flame," he rasped. "That I wielded it, when Daenerys refused to listen to reason, when she would have murdered thousands. That I used it against her as you once used Wildfire." He looked into Tyrion's shocked eyes, seeking out some understanding. "I did not wish to use it. I would not have, but I had to stop her from using it first on those who could not defend themselves…"

"How could you ever control her dragons?"

Snow inhaled nervously. "Because, Lannister, I have…a burden. Dragon blood is in my veins."

"I don't understand, Snow."

"I was sired by Rhaegar Targaryan, and borne by Lyanna Stark. Eddard Stark chose to take me in as his own rather than let his sister's son become a causality of the powers that raged."

"Then you are a…?"

"A Stark," he finished, and his eyes were as keen as the winter on the northern wall.

"But your blood gives you claim now," Tyrion challenged. "Some would surely say you killed the Queen of Dragons to claim what you discovered to be yours…the throne would be yours…"

"The Iron Throne is no one's now," he blurted. "I would sooner suffer the sting of the last smoke than sit upon it."

Tyrion's eyes widened. "Was it offered to you?"

He shut his eyes. "Offered or not, I would not…bend the knee to it. I left it behind, and the swords were pulled out of it, and broken. They said I knew nothing…still…"

And Tyrion nodded slowly. "And what has become of the dragons?"

"The dragons have been released in the wilds of the desert lands from which they came. They are free to fly there, causing no harm to man ever again."

"Then it is you who have broken the wheel."

"No one else would do it."

Tyrion could not help but smile, just a little. Because this boy he had known for so long, the bastard sent to serve at the Wall, wet behind the ears and oh-so petulant, but with a good heart, this boy….had gone on to do what no one else would do. And that measured the man, measured him high in Tyrion's eyes. _Sometimes the last in line are the ones who last in time…_

"Eddard Stark…I know now, he saved my life," Snow murmured. "At the cost of everything, he would not leave me to be killed. He said I was of his blood."

"You are a true-born Stark. Your father – Eddard Stark of Winterfell – he would surely be proud."

"And you, Lannister, are your own master," Snow returned in kind.

Tyrion nodded in assent. "So then you will lead your own people?"

"I will try, and hope I might never forget…" He turned to the half-man knowingly, remembering a conversation between long ago. "Never forget what I am."

"At least you're not ashamed of it anymore," Tyrion noted.

"And you? Are you ashamed of what you are?" Snow questioned.

Tyrion was caught off guard. "Have I ever struck you as shamed?" he queried, a touch more nervous than he meant to sound.

"Sansa tells me you both have suffered much at the hands of those who found out the truth of your name," he told him.

"What we are has a way of following us," Tyrion admitted.

"But now that the Council of the Kingdoms has been called, a new settlement will be established," Jon explained. "No one is left who would hunt or harry you and my sister and your family. You may all live out your days in peace here, or return to Westeros in peace, if you wish it. You might claim Casterly Rock for you own, or even settle in the North."

Tyrion's eyes misted for a moment. "The Lannisters and the Starks again returned to the same land? Is such a thing possible…after so very much blood?"

"It has been done in my own dwelling," Snow retorted.

"You are now lord of Winterfell then? And Myrcella is the lady? King and Queen of the North?" He tilted his head slightly. "How did your people feel, with your sharing a marriage bed with a Lannister by blood?"

"I could not do what they wanted me to do to her," he stated grimly. "I remember when Sansa was in the hands of Joffrey, and then I learned she had married you. While I didn't know for certain, I had reason to hope that you would treat her well, that you wouldn't harm an innocent girl. And I could not mete out what I hoped you would not."

"It seems she thought you might, at first," Tyrion noted. "Did you think you might?"

Jon closed his eyes, as if trying to chase away a bad memory. "When she was brought to me, she was meant to save my sister's life, to put Cersei against her own flesh and blood, and to face the consequences if she slew another Stark." He bit his lip. "After the thing was done, after they cut up Arya like an animal, I thought to do the deed…to teach Cersei a lesson she would remember…"

Jon Snow inhaled, remembering the look on Myrcella's face that night, and how when he had drawn his sword, she had innocently assumed he was merely showing her the engraving, and touched it, and broken-hearted, he had pulled it back from her. The sword had accidentally slipped along her hands, tearing the skin of her palms. She thought he had done it on purpose and gasped to see her own blood welling up in her hands.

"So…?" Tyrion queried.

Jon swallowed, recalling how the girl's terrified eyes had caused his palm to grow sweaty, and how he had loosened his grip on the hilt, and let it fall to the ground with a clatter as he shouted at her to run, and how she had done so, and how he had been left alone to his tears.

"I could not kill her for her mother, not when her own mother would not put down her sword to save her. Would I have brought my sister, or any of my family back?"

"No." The half-man looked at him with some admiration. "We seem to have come to the same conclusion over time. Few things are gained and even less restored by continuing to turn the wheel. In the end, marrying proved of more use to everyone than…what they had wanted me to do."

Tyrion gazed over at Sansa and Myrcella sitting next to each other on the stone bench, seemingly quite enjoying each other's company. The sight of these two women, Lannister and Stark, sharing the day in peace warmed his soul.

"She loves you, Snow," Tyrion remarked. "As soon as I saw her smile in your direction, I knew…she has eyes for you. And that is no ill feat to achieve, especially in as lovely a creature as she."

Snow's eyes shot in her direction. "You think that's true?"

Tyrion heaved a sigh. "Seriously, in some ways you haven't changed at all. But this I will say: You will treasure that girl, or you'll have a demon on your back."

Snow laughed at that. Then he grew pensive. "I do treasure her," he said. "She's been a good wife, and a patient one, far more patient than I have been with others. She's been…patient, waiting for me to love her as I should have long ago."

"There are different victories to win, you know," Tyrion counseled him. "Some are won with steel, others with wit, and others yet…" He smirked. "Others may be won with many things a man has at his disposal. But I have learned, down through the years, a woman is apt to judge you on your heart. It's best to show her as much of it as you can."

"I'll take your word for it, Lannister." Snow glanced over at Sansa again. "You seem to have won your own victory right here."

888

"It amazes me how Myrcella has grown," Tyrion chattered happily as he lay in bed with Sansa that night. "It truly amazes me. She was such a little thing the last time I set eyes on her, and now she carries herself like a queen. And not like her mother either. She's…all her own."

"She always was a sweet-natured girl," Sansa agreed. "Why I remember her trying to comfort me, before our wedding, saying I would have the prettiest dress…"

"What, no scintillating recommendations for her uncle?" he pretended to pout.

Since when have you relied upon recommendation, my lord?" she challenged.

He grinned devilishly. "I suppose proving one's own prowess does come with perks…" He leaned over playfully and kissed her neck.

"You're a rogue, you know that?" she twitted.

"Yes, but I like it when you remind me."

"He seemed headed for another kiss, but she turned to him with a serious glint in her eyes. "So what did you tell Jon…about his offer to…go home?"

Tyrion shrugged. "That I'd discuss it with you, of course."

"But what do _you_ want to do?"

He blinked. "What do you think, love?"

"I think I should not like for you to spend the rest of your days lamenting a great opportunity that slipped from your grasp."

"It wouldn't slip he told her. "I would just…let it go."

"Could you, husband?"

"Could you, wife?"

She smiled slowly and leaned into him. "With pleasure."

"I rather hoped you'd say that," he sighed contentedly. "We've moved around quite enough in our lives, don't you think?"

"Indeed," she agreed. "Besides I have not had a true home in Westeros since Winterfell…and that is but a child' dream."

"I don't believe I ever truly had a home there," he confessed. "Or at least…not one like this. I should like very much to…keep faith something Sauriel said, about cutting the cord on the old wolrd, once and for all. Besides, I'm fairly confident that the bast…well, that your brother will handle things quite well. I had my years in the sun. Now it's his turn to shine. He's grown up now, you know? Doesn't need quite as much sage counsel from the older generation as once he did. I remember back in the days when he couldn't even take a joke…"

She punched him in the shoulder playfully. "You joke hard, Tyrion."

"That is why we make a good pair," he stated. "You comfort the afflicted, and I afflict the comfortable."

She shook her head. "I don't know how good I am at comforting," she told him. "You've always been the one doing that for me…"

"Don't be silly," she scoffed. "Just look at you today…you made that girl feel worlds better, don't you know? I can't imagine Snow being particularly good at the task!"

Sansa made a sly smile. "Sometimes the one who can get through to a pregnant woman is…another pregnant woman."

Tyrion seemed to miss the connotation for a moment that snapped wide awake, turning to her with an almost comically stunned look on his face.

"Oh, surely you've gotten used to this sort of news by now," she sighed, fiddling with the collar of his night-shirt.

"I know, but…oh…is…will it…be alright?"

"Oh, Tyrion, I've learned not to go on swings by now," she chided him. "And I had no problem at all with Caitey."

"Yes, I know. It's just…"

"It's just that you worry far too much every time. Now for once, I want you to be as happy as I am. Can you not try, for me, hmm?"

"I am happy, dear girl," he assured, and kissed her hand. "I just…"

"And this time, our daughter, as Sauriel promised it would be a daughter, well…this time we're naming her Joanna. I know that would make both of them happy, for surely they are together now, yes…all three of our mothers, I like to think are together now."

Tyrion swallowed back something and kissed her deeply. "You're a queen, Sansa. A true queen…I only wish…"

"Wish nothing more than we have _now_ …right now, Tyrion! It's everything… _everything_ …"

And as they spent that night in each other's embrace, Tyrion Lannister knew that Sansa Stark had spoken the purest of truths. _Now. Right now. Everything is here._


	26. Epilogue: Scarlet-Fringed Rose

Epilogue: Scarlet-Fringed Rose

 _20 Years Later, in the Mountains of Davneros…_

The twilight of life fell softly over the woods, at the edge of the lake, lapping at the edges thirstily, like a tale of tongues, told over and over again through the ages. A pile of stones, lichen-clad and rain-splattered, stood as a cairn to mark out the resting place of ashes, mixed with the depth of the dust. And beside it there stood a woman, both aging and ageless, standing at her post, mulling over the memories that washed over her…

 _"_ _Darkness comes to take us away," the half-man had said as he lay on his death-bed, as she lay beside him, clasping his hand and running her fingers through his graying hair. "Don't forget that you loved me. Don't be afraid if I'm gone from you. We'll find each other on the other side. I will always find you…"_

The woman's dress matching the purple heather and her eyes the dappled sky, changing from blue to gray to blue again, keeping pace with the dance of the spring wind. This season had come in like a lion, but she knew it would go out like a lamb. They were old eyes, marking out the spirit of a healer, an old soul grown wise through the working of her craft. A crystal glistened over her heart, a sign respected by all the mountain folk who knew her as Sansa the Seer.

Her hair was long, wrapped round her neck and trailing down her shoulder, like a trail of some ancient glory. The breeze stroked it back, untangling silver-white locks from the last remaining golden-red strands, like it stroked the grass, turning upward and ocean of movement, blazing green, lighter and darker hues gushing along the ground.

She knelt beside the cairn. Her hand was delicate, the veins standing out in them and making them seem older then they really were. Her thin fingers brushed the grass. They brushed the thin-veined petals of the earliest of spring flowers. Resolutely, she plucked it out, and brought it to her lips. Then she placed it between the stones, and she thought upon the wildflowers in the wall that his sister had torn out, so many, many years ago.

"No one will tear out the flowers now, Tyrion," she whispered. "They will grow, all around, from the ashes of our hearts."

Spring in all its youthful splendor ripened in the baking gold of the summer sun. And still she returned, taking up her post. It face tanned in the tangy, tawny air, like fresh strawberries in the balmy gold-leafed skies. The lake was ripe with fish, and the old song of frogs that kept going all night, deep in the throat, as it had from the very beginning of days. For the fish and frogs were older than men, and they knew wisdoms that men had long forgotten. One is called to return, return, return, always return to the place of coming into being, and there leave oneself, scale by scale, wart by wart, and to let the wisdom of life full up and spill over.

And the woman returned to the quiet of cairn, and watched the snakes slither from the rocks and shed their skins. And she took the skins for her potions, and broke bread over the rocks, and poured in wine. And she thought of the touch of skin, and the broken virginity, and the wine of love, and she thought of lips on lips, and voice touching ears. And she remembered the feel of the bed and the tears and caresses of the first naked encounter, and the memories that had swelled up within her when she had recognized herself in him, and him in her. And the crumbs fell between the stones, and the air was tinged with the scent of herbs, of rosemary and thyme. Did old bones know such scents, taking them in to the makeup and movement of the marrow? She hoped so.

The autumn unfurled with a mellowing of elements, and the geese landing in the lake, breaking the skin of the water to fish for weeds, fattening up for the beginning of their flight south. The lights faded earlier, and the air was crisp with dying leaves and kindling fires that made crackling music and sent sparks shooting up like living stars.

And the woman would return to the lakeside, and break the last of her bread to feed the geese. Her hair was graying it seemed, and her skin was thinning. The pulsing of her veins might be seen in her hands, like a woman much older than her years. She felt herself waning, like the moon. And she felt the months wearing on her like a too-heavy cloak of fur she wished to shed, or the feathers of the crows she watched cawing in the trees, and she watched them. Sometimes she dreamed of being one of them, with dark feathers, flying high above her sorrows, and seeing all with the keenness of their sight. But dreams were merely dreams, and she was still bound to the earth, and the cup of milk she poured into it, moistening the ground around her husband's grave when her tears had all run dry and her eyes were numb.

Sometimes her three daughters who come with her, the landed ladies who presided as lords in their own right. Some called them the Moon Maidens, in reference to the old myths of the three women who spun moonlight and could never be separated. If they were indeed the thread-weavers, the warpers of the web, then surely their mother was the Widow. Yet she preferred to remain hidden while the northern lights glistened along the strong threads that had come forth from her. She believed in them, having learned to reconcile that the mix of wolf and lion was not so much a contradiction as a fusion of the best of both worlds.

When the lord of the castle had died, his possessions had passed to their father. When he himself died, his lady wife had received the authority. And yet she had wanted none of it, preferring to retreat to the woods to study and sacred skills of Sauriel. And so Sansa's daughters, now grown, held their own court. It had been a very long time since ever women had held such power in the mountains, but they wielded it well, and the villagers knew them well enough to respect and trust them. They were the mothers of the people, and mothers might be many things…warriors, artists, lovers. Mothers make the world turn round.

The eldest, Sophie, was the leader, the diplomat, and one who united the village factions. When once bandits made their way over the mountain passes, she had been the one to don armor and rally the men of the villages to drive them back, making her the subject of many ballads. The second eldest, Caitlin, had gained renown for her artistry, her use of charcoal and paint to transform anything ordinary into the extraordinary. It was said magic rested with her as much as mettle rested with her sister, though the two had developed a fierce bond.

The youngest, Joanna, was the beauty of the family, inheriting her mother's looks and charm. She also spent much time in the old library reading poems of romance and chivalry as her mother had done in her youth. She was courted by many young men, and was bound to fall in love, to know the taste of it. Sansa hoped it would not be too painful for her, that she would never know betrayal, or if she did, she would not be hardened by it, for hardening does nothing to spite the betrayer and everything to spite the lover. And scorning of all love is always a poor balm for open wounds.

But when the last of the seasons came, no balm could soothe Sansa's inner wound. It was too large, yawning like the gap between cliffs. And she would only make her graveside visits alone. The daughters worried, but the mother knew what she was about. She was being drawn out to the place of the veil's stretch, where every soul is stripped naked and clean, and no one may accompany them.

The winds of winter returned and whirled wistfully to the place of death, the place of the white-washed cairn, clad in the shift of the snow. The lake was frosted with ice, like a great glistening gem reflecting the frozen stars. And it was quiet at the grave there, the quiet of things too deep to lessen with words. The maiden moon assumed her throne in the dead of night, and the wolves cried out to her lustily, as if beckoning her to come down to them and make love. For all their pleading, she remained reigning above them until she melted away, slowly, like a grieving heart that will give itself to no other lover but the dawn.

And the woman was there again, in a flowing gown the color of ice, and a velvet cloak the color of blood. And the moon stroked her hair, and it was gilded now, like spider webbing dabbed with dew as the snow drifted down and clung to the silvering strands. Sansa had often walked among the wolves at night, in these woods. She knew they would never harm her; she was too much their kin. Once, the old stories said, the whole world had been wrapped in ice, with only some strong enough to survive until the sun drew nigh and warmed the earth again.

Among them were the ancestors of the wolves. And among them were the ancestors of the Starks. And such, they were soul-bound till the last sun burnt out in the sky, and the faces of the old gods and the new faded, and all was sunk into the vast primordial chasm of being and non-being, awaiting rebirth. And even then, she thought, there would always be a place for the wolves. Perhaps their song would sing the new world into existence…

But now the only song she could think of was that sung by a lion, her lion, once by this lakeside, once when all the world seemed to have stopped in awe of their love after so much senseless hatred:

 _She tells him send her a cut of bread…_

 _And tells him send her a cup of wine…_

 _And to remember the brave young lady…_

 _Who did release him when he was confined…_

She knelt down next to the cairn, and brushed away the snow from the crevices of the rocks. Then she pressed her lips against a stone. It was cold, very cold, but her kiss was made with mouth part open, and her breathing warmed it. It had been long, so very long, since she had allowed herself this much…allowed her heart to rebel against the cold, the separation, the wall that stood between them…she wanted to feel love more than to feel life…yes, yes, she wanted to rebel, with all the strength of her blood, she wanted to break the wall into so many pieces, even if it broke her heart…

And as her heart bounded against her breast, Sansa lay down in the snow, her scarlet cape flowing around her like a river of wine, and out from under its folds, a scarlet-fringed rose was clasped tight in her hand. A thorn tore into her finger, and drops of blood stained the chilly white ground. It was the wedding band finger, she knew, the blood was from the heart, warm enough to melt any snow…

She was a daughter of the North, and of the cold she was not afraid, nor of the wolf's howl, nor the raven's flight. And the voices of the portal, of the trees that contained wisdom in their roots, and whose branches reached out to take her by the hand. They had called to her often enough…and in her mind, all the sounds through the years punctured her inner ears, and the sights pierced her inner eye, and she saw it all in a rush, the horror and the beauty, the war and the peace, her simple childhood and complex adulthood, and those moments that ran down deeper than both…

Yes, she saw people and faces and the way her father and mother looked at each other when they had danced at a ball once, and her sister had teased her brothers with her keen arrow aim, and the brush of the direwolf Lady against her skirts, and her strange first kiss against evil lips, and the sight of moldering death…and all threaded together with the ribbon of life's ending…

And then… _him_ …yes, all him, and the uneven steps he took, and his mismatch eyes, and that very particular voice, that very particular laugh, and just how much she had known him, in every way, in every thought, in her arms, and felt every dimension of himself had become a part of her, and just so, just so, the way she would lay her head on his shoulder, and the warmth of his kiss upon her neck…and she _desired him_ …more, much more…than life…

And then…yes, she felt words…not heard them, _felt_ them…and each one made her tremble with ecstasy, for they were coming from within her, and they were _his_ …yes, they were his, and they were true, and he was calling her, now…and the moon seemed to take on many colors, like stained glass, as she closed her eyes to the song that was beckoning her soul from its shell…

 _My featherbed is deep and soft and there I'll you down…_

 _I'll dress you all in yellow silk, and on your head a crow…_

 _And you shall be my lady love and I shall be your lord…_

 _I'll always keep you warm and safe, and guard you with my sword…_

They found her there in the morning, frozen under the grey eye of the winter dawn, with the gray wolves around her, protecting her from the ravens. And there was a smile on her face

The three sisters wept for her, and the eldest kissed her forehead.

And the villagers held vigil for her, at the great fire which brought her to ashes.

And the king grown old across the sea, in the harsh wintery North of her birth, wept for her.

And he kept forever prized the pressed petals of a scarlet-fringed rose.

THE END


End file.
